THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


rinM(*«-<n* 


\ 


POEMS 


PROGRESS 


BY 


LIZZIE    DOTEN. 


"  If  an  offence  come  out  of  the  Truth,  better  is  it  that  the 

offence  come,  than  the  Truth  be  concealed."       JEROME. 

"Stand  out  of  my  sunshine."       DIOGENES  OF  SINOFE. 


BOSTON : 
WILLIAM   WHITE   AND   COMPANY, 

BANNER    OF    LIGHT    OFFICE, 

158  WASHINGTON  STEEKT. 

•       NEW  YORK  AGENTS  — THE  AMERICAN  NEWS  COMPANY, 
111)  NASSAU  STUEET. 

1871. 


Entered,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871, 

BT  MISS  ELIZABETH  DOTEN, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at   Washington. 


Electrotyp«d  at  the  Boston  Stereotype  Foundry, 
No.  19  Spring  Lane. 


PS 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

DECLARATION  OF  FAITH  (PREFATORY) 5 

THE   CHEMISTRY   OF  CHARACTER 11 

LET   THY   KINGDOM   COME 14 

THE   SPIRIT  OF  NATURE. 17 

MARGERY   MILLER 20 

THE   LAW  OF  LIFE 26 

A   RESPECTABLE   LIE 33 

THE  KAINBOW   BRIDGE 38 

KEST  THOU   IN   PEACE 42 

ANGEL   LILY 44 

THE   ALL   IN   ALL 48 

"ECCE  HOMO." 50 

PETER  McGUIBE;   OR,  NATURE  AND  GRACE.       ...  56 

HYMN  OF  THE  ANGELS.   . 62 

GONE  HOME 64 

THE  CRY   OF  THE   DESOLATE C6 

THE   SPIRIT-MOTHER .       .       .       .       •  69 

FACE  THE   SUNSHINE 77 

HESTER  VAUGHN 83 

SONG  OF  THE  SPIRIT  CHILDREN 87 

HE  GIVETH   HIS  BELOVED  SLEEP 90 

THE  FAMISHED   HEART 92 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE 99 

REFORMERS. 102 

MR.  DE   SPLAE 105 

3 


759805 


4  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

WILL  IT   PAY? 109 

THE  LIVING   WORD 114 

HYMN  TO  THE  SUN 119 

GREATHEART  AND  GIANT   DESPAIR 12:5 

"THE   ORACLE." 128 

MY   ANGEL 135 

THE  ANGEL  OK  HEALING 139 

TRUTH   TRIUMPHANT H3 

GOOD  IN  ALL 147 

JOHN  ENDICOTT 153 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  FREEDOM 157 

OUR  SOLDIERS'  GRAVES.      . 104 

OUTWARD   BOUND. 1(16 

THE   WANDERER'S   WELCOME   HOME 170 

LABOR  AND  WAIT 174 

FRAE   RHYMING   ROBIN 176 

AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEVIL 181 

FRATERNITY 185 

OWEENA 190 

GONE  IS  GONE,  AND  DEAD  IS  DEAD 195 

THE   SPIRIT  TEACHER 198 

LITTLE  NELL. 203 

THE   SOUL'S   DESTINY 206 

GUARDIAN  ANGELS 208 

NEARER  TO   THEE 211 

THE  SACRAMENT. 213 

THE  GOOD  TIME  NOW 217 

LIFE'S   MYSTERIES 221 

A  WOODLAND  IDYL 225 

JUBILATE 229 

THE   DIVINE   IDEA 231 

THE  PYRAMIDS 235 

THE  INNER   MYSTERY.    ,                                                             .  237 


DECLARATION  OF  FAITH. 


DOUBTLESS  many  who  take  up  this  book,  and  glance  care 
lessly  at  its  pages,  will  exclaim,  "  What !  more  Spiritualism ! " 
To  which  remark  I  answer,  yes,  more  Spiritualism,  an  une 
quivocal,  undisguised,  positive  Spiritualism  —  confirmed  by 
many  years  of  careful  observation,  study,  and  experience,  and 
of  which  this  book  is  the  legitimate  outgrowth.  Eight  years 
have  elapsed  since  my  first  volume — "Poems  from  the  In 
ner  Life  "  —  was  given  to  the  world  (to  the  Preface  of  which 
I  now  refer  for  any  explanation  concerning  my  medium- 
ship).  During  that  interval  of  time,  the  ranks  of  the  believ 
ers  in  Spiritualism  have  steadily  increased  in  numbers,  its 
phenomena,  presenting  an  array  of  well-established  facts, 
have  challenged  the  investigation  of  some  of  the  first  scientific 
minds  of  the  age,  and  its  philosophy  has  done  more  towards 
liberating  the  human  mind  from  the  thraldom  of  old  supersti 
tions  and  creeds  than  any  other  form  of  faith  which  has  arisen 
for  centuries.  But  as  yet,  it  has  not  secured  that  prestige  of 
popularity  and  respectability  which  the  combined  influence 
of  age,  wealth,  and  organized  action  ever  afforded.  Conse 
quently,  those  who  are  "  named  by  its  name  "  must  be  pre 
pared  to  meet  the  anathemas  of  religious  bigots  —  the  lofty 
scorn  of  those  who  are  wise  in  their  own  conceit  —  the  scurri 
lous  attacks  of  those  who  would  divert  attention  from  their  own 
infamy  and  the  petty  irritations  of  a  numerous  pack  who  fol 
low  at  the  heels  of  every  new  movement,  and  ever  distinguish 
themselves  by  noise  rather  than  by  knowledge.  As  a  partici 
pant  in  this  great  movement,  I  have  found  such  attacks  to  be 

5 


6  DECLARATION  '  OF   FAITH. 

helps  rather  than  hinderances  to  my  progress,  inasmuch  as  I 
have  been  enabled  to  define  my  own  positive  and  affirmative 
position  more  clearly  from  the  negations  of  the  oppcsers  of 
Spiritualism. 

We  are  told  that  "  it  is  not  a  Religion."  But  after  a  long 
and  careful  study  of  the  past  and  present,  I  have  yet  to  find 
any  phase  of  faith,  which,  in  its  very  inception  lias  commenced 
so  directly  at  the  root  of  all  necessary  reform,  viz.,  the  purifi 
cation  and  harmonious  development  of  the  human  body.  This 
primary  and  fundamental  truth  has  been  taken  as  a  starting- 
point  —  it  has  been  enunciated  from  the  spirit  world  —  re 
peated  by  the  inspirational  speakers — has  been  interwoven 
with  all  the  spiritualistic  literature,  and  has  found  a  practical 
application  in  the  Children's  Lyceums.  The  religion  that 
teaches,  "  Take  care  of  the  soul,  and  let  the  body  take  care  of 
itself,"  will  inevitably  defeat  its  own  purposes,  and  has  already 
been  taught  long  enough  for  us  to  know  that  it  is  a  failure. 
No  other  form  of  faith  ever  brought  the  spiritual  world  so 
near,  as  to  banish  its  supernatural  character,  and  place  it 
•within  the  province  of  natural  law.  No  other  form  of  faith 
has  illustrated  the  fact  so  clearly,  that  just  as  we  go  out  of 
this  world,  so  do  we  enter  upon  the  next,  thereby  presenting 
a  more  rational  incentive  to  endeavor,  than  the  rewards  of 
Heaven  or  the  punishments  of  Hell;  and  no  other  from  of 
faith  has  so  effectually  dissipated  the  idea  of  an  inane  and 
purposeless  life  in  the  future,  and  given  to  the  angels  a  more 
exalted  employment  than  "loafing  around  the  throne."  It 
also  teaches  that  mediumship,  under  proper  circumstances,  is 
a  healthy,  harmonious,  and  normal  development  of  human 
nature,  and  that  communion  with  the  spiritual  world  is  not 
interdicted,  and  no  more  impossible  than  any  other  attainment 
that  lies  in  the  direct  line  of  natural  law,  human  progress,  and 
scientific  investigation.  This  to  me,  and  to  those  who  have 
accepted  Spiritualism  thoughtfully  and  sincerely,  makes  it  a 
reliijion  indeed,  and  the  positive  assertions  of  any  number  of 
intellectual  or  religious  "authorities  "  to  the  contrary  cannot 
make  it  otherwise. 

We  have  been  told  again  and  again,  that  "  Spiritualism  is 


DECLARATION    OF    FAITH.  / 

Supernaturalism,"  that  we  believe  in  miracles,  which  are  con 
trary  to  the  "methods"  of  God's  government.  We  have 
denied  this  repeatedly,  assuming  that  we  ourselves  had  the 
best  right  to  say  what  we  did  believe ;  but  our  denial  has  not 
been  accepted,  and  the  reason  is  obvious.  Any  number  of 
scholastic  discourses,  elaborately  written  essays,  and  eloquent 
appeals  to  popular  prejudice,  would  lose  their  pith  and  mar 
row,  and  be  found  wanting,  if  this  false  predicate,  this  fabri 
cated  nucleus  for  their  logic  should  be  disallowed. 

Again,  we  are  told  that  "Spiritualism  is  not  Science;"  to 
which  we  reply,  that  Spiritualism  has  presented  facts  and  phe 
nomena  which  the  later  discoveries  in  Science  are  tending 
botli  to  explain  and  substantiate.  It  has  been  demonstrated 
that  it  is  not  the  eye  that  sees,  the  ear  that  hears,  or  the  nerves 
that  feel,  but  each  of  these  avenues  of  sense  serves  to  convey 
the  vibrations  of  the  surrounding  "ether"  to  the  central  con 
sciousness,  winch  alone  is  possessed  of  the  power  of  percep 
tion.  Since  this  is  so,  who  shall  dare  place  a  limit  to  the  pos 
sibilities  of  that  consciousness,  of  which  so  litile  is  definitely 
known?  Or  why  should  any  man  prescribe,  as  a  standard  for 
all  others,  the  limitations  of  his  own  feeble  consciousness.  A 
modern  reasoner  tells  us  that  "  if  the  bodily  ear  receives  vi 
brations  from  one  atmosphere,  it  cannot  receive  them  from 
another,  and  no  fiction  of  an  inner  ear  can  give  genuineness 
to  voices  and  whispers  of  a  spiritual  tongue."  Since,  how 
ever,  it  is  not  the  outer  ear,  but  the  inner  consciousness,  that 
hears,  a  quickening  of  its  perceptions  will  allow  it  to  catch 
the  vibrations  from  another  atmosphere,  and  Spiritualism  de 
monstrates,  by  indisputable  facts,  that  this  is  so.  Also,  that 
this  is  not  an  abnormal  condition,  but  perfectly  legitimate  to 
certain  states  of  the  inner  consciousness. 

The  revelations  of  the  spectroscope,  and  the  investigations 
of  some  of  the  greatest  scientific  minds  of  the  present  d;iy, 
have  determined  the  existence  of  a  higher  scale  of  vibrations 
than  those  which  fall  within  the  ordinary  range  of  human  vis 
ion.  All  the  objects  and  forms  of  life  comprehended  in  that 
scale,  although  so  closely  blended  and  interwoven  with  the 
vibrations  of  our  own  plane  of  existence,  are  lost  to  our  dull 


8  DECLARATION   OF   FAITH. 

perceptions,  unless,  through  some  physical  or  mental  condi 
tion,  there  is  a  quickening  of  our  inner  consciousness.  When 
this  comes,  as  it  has  again  and  again  to  many,  we  have  reve 
lations  from  the  "  spirit  world"  which  is,  after  all,  but  a  finer 
material  world,  as  real,  as  substantial,  as  objective,  and  as 
directly  within  the  province  of  universal  law,  as  that  which  we 
now  inhabit.  That  we  should  be  made  sensibly  aware  of  this 
higher  life,  under  certain  legitimate  conditions,  is  perfectly 
natural.  Indeed,  it  would  be  strange,  with  the  uniformity  of 
succession  and  development  which  pervades  all  things,  if  we 
were  not.  It  is  not  a  world  that  is  possible,  but  actual,  not 
one  that  might  be,  but  is. 

In  this  matter,  intelligent  Spiritualists  range  themselves 
side  by  side  with  those  of  whom  Professor  Tyndall  has  said, 
"  You  never  hear  the  really  philosophical  defenders  of  the 
doctrine  of  uniformity  speaking  of  impossibilities  in  nature. 
They  best  know  that  questions  offer  themselves  to  thought, 
which  Science,  as  now  prosecuted,  has  not  even  the  tendency 
to  solve.  They  keep  such  questions  open,  and  will  not  toler 
ate  any  unlawful  limitations  of  the  horizon  of  their  souls." 
However  weak  and  imperfect  our  spiritual  vision  may  be  at 
present,  we  shall  use  each  and  every  opportunity  of  obtaining 
nil  the  information  that  is  possible,  either  from  this  world  or 
the  next.  The  report  of  the  committee  chosen  by  the  London 
Dialectical  Society,  to  investigate  the  subject  of  Spiritualism, 
"  bears  strong  testimony  in  favor  of  the  reality  of  the  manifes 
tations,  '  and  is  a  step  in  the  right  direction.  All  we  ask  of 
our  opponents,  is  fair  treatment  and  an  unprejudiced  consid 
eration  of  the  facts  and  phenomena  which  Spiritualism  pre 
sents.  We  do  not  fear  as  to  the  result. 

But  the  objection  which  is  most  frequently  urged  against 
Spiritualism  is,  that  "  it  is  immoral  in  its  tendencies."  In 
my  anxiety  to  prove  all  things,  I  have  also  taken  this  matter 
into  careful  consideration,  and  diligently  compared  the  an 
nuls  of  crime  in  the  so-called  Christian  church  with  those  of 
Spiritualism.  For  several  years  I  have  collected  the  items 
from  the  daily  newspapers,  that  I  might  have  them  for  future 
reference,  and  in  due  time  come  to  a  just  and  impartial  con- 


DECLARATION   OF   FAITH.  9 

elusion.  As  I  write,  that  record  of  ministerial  delinquency, 
ecclesiastical  abominations,  and  human  frailty,  lies  before  me. 
Where  I  have  found  one  spiritual  sheep  that  has  gone  astray,  I 
have  found  ninety  and  nine  of  the  Shepherds  in  Israel  in 
great  need  of  repentance.  Let  the  church  cleanse  her  own 
Augean  stables  before  she  utters  one  word  in  relation  to  the 
immoralities  of  Spiritualism.  Casting  stones  and  calling  hard 
names  will  not  profit  either  party.  I^js  neither  Christianity 
nor  Spiritualism  that  is  responsible  for  these  immoralities,  but 
poor  human  nature.  The  remedy  lies  not  in  creeds  or  forms 
of  faith,  but  in  the  growth  of  Truth  in  the  Understanding,  and 
Love  in  the  heart.  Not  as  a  Spiritualist,  but  as  a  child  of 
humanity,  do  I  hope  that  the  entire  world  may  yet  have  a 
moral  standard,  harmonious  with  the  laws  of  God  and  Nature, 
and  consistent  with  the  highest  good  of  the  individual  and 
society. 

Having,  from  inclination  and  a  sense  of  duty  to  my  kindred 
in  the  faith,  pursued  the  subject  thus  far,  the  "  Spirit  moves 
me  "  to  present,  in  conclusion,  a  few  quotations  which  require 
neither  comment  nor  explanation. 

"  If  we  are  wise  we  shall  sit  down  upon  the  brink  and  con 
tent  ourselves  with  saying  what  the  spiritual  world  is  not  and 
cannot  be.  *  *  The  so\i\%n.ust  be  entirely  ignorant  of  the  second 
body  until  it  has  ceased  to  use  the  first.  *  *  The  new  organs 
may  be,  all  correspond  in  intention  and  effect  to  the  present 
ones ;  but  we  say  that  they  do  not  yet  exist.  They  cannot  exist ; 
the  ground  is  pre-occupied."  John  Weiss, 

Unitarian  Monthly  Journal,  May,  1866. 

"  Moreover,  the  satellites  of  Jupiter  are  invisible  to  the  na 
ked  eye,  and  therefore  can  exercise  no  influence  over  the 
Earth,  and  therefore  would  be  useless,  and  therefore  do  not 
exist."  Francesco  Sizzi,  Times  of  Galileo. 

"If  the  Spiritualists  would  secure  the  favor  of  sensible  peo 
ple  they  must  let  them  see  that  they  are  not  at  war  with  good 
sense.  *  *  It  were  better  that  very  sacred  and  dear  beliefs 


10  DECLARATION    OF    FAITH. 

should  go,  than  that  this  enemy  of  all  rational  belief  should 
remain.  Let  us  prefer  to  have  no  other  world,  than  to  have 
another  world  full  of  teasing,  troublesome,  meddlesome  be 
ings,  who  interfere  with  the  rational  order  of  the  world  we 
dwell  in."  0.  B.  Froihingham, 

"The  Index,"  July  8,  1871. 

"  If  the  new  planets  were  acknowledged,  what  a  chaos  would 
ensue!"  *  *  "  I  will  never  concede  his  four  new  planets  to 
that  Italian,  though  I  die  for  it." 

Martin  Iforky,  Times  of  Galileo. 

"  O  my  beloved  Kepler !  How  I  wish  we  could  have  one  good 
laugh  together"!  Here,  at  Padua,  is  the  principal  Professor 
of  Philosophy,  whom  I  have  repeatedly  and  urgently  requested 
to  look  at  the  moon  and  planets  through  my  telescope,  which 
he  pertinaciously  refuses  to  do !  Why,  my  dear  Kepler,  are 
you  not  here?  What  shouts  of  laughter  we  should  have  at 
all  this  solemn  folly  !  " 

Letter  from  Galileo  to  John  Kepler. 


POEMS   OF  PROGRESS. 


THE   CHEMISTRY  OF   CHARACTER. 

Jonx,  and  Peter,  and  Robert,  and  Paul, 
God  in  his  wisdom  created  them  all. 
John  was  a  statesman,  and  Peter  a  slave, 
Robert  a  preacher,  and  Paul  —  was  a  knave. 
Evil  or  good  as  the  case  might  be, 
White,  or  colored,  or  bond,  or  free  — 
John,  and  Peter,  and  Robert,  and  Paul, 
God  in  his  wisdom  created  them  all. 

Out  of  earth's  elements,  mingled  with  flame, 
Out  of  life's  compounds  of  glory  and  shame, 
Fashioned  and  shaped  by  no  will  of  their  own, 
And  helplessly  into  life's  history  thrown ; 
Born  by  the  law  that  compels  men  to  be, 
Born  to  conditions  they  could  not  foresee, 
John,  and  Peter,  and  Robert,  and  Paul, 
God  in  his  wisdom  created  them  all. 

11 


12  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

John  was  the  head  and  the  heart  of  his  State, 
Was  trusted  and  honored,  was  noble  and  great. 
Peter  was  made  'neath  life's  burdens  to  groan, 
And  never  once  dreamed  that  his  soul  was  his  own. 
Robert  great  glory  and  honor  received, 
For  zealously  preaching  what  no  one  believed ; 
While  Paul,  of  the  pleasures  of  sin  took  his  fill, 
And  gave  up  his  life  to  the  service  of  ill. 

It  chanced  that  these  men,  in  their  passing  away 
From  earth  and  its  conflicts,  all  died  the  same  day. 
John   was    mourned   through    the   length    and    the 

breadth  of  the  land  — 

Peter  fell  'neath  the  lash  in  a  merciless  hand  — 
Hubert   died   with   the   praise  of  the   Lord   on   his 

tongue  — 

While  Paul  was  convicted  of  murder,  and  hung. 
John,  and  Peter,  and  Robert,  and  Paul, 
The  purpose  of  life  was  fulfilled  in  them  all. 

Men    said    of  the    Statesman  —  "How    noble    and 

brave ! " 

But  of  Peter,  alas!  —  "he  was  only  a  Slave." 
Of   Robert  —  "  Tis    well    with    his    soul  —  it    is 

well ; " 
While  Paul  they  consigned  to  the  torments  of  hell. 


THE    CHEMISTRY    OF    CHARACTEE.  13 

Born  by  one  law  through  all  Nature  the  same, 
What  made  them  differ?  and  who  was  to  blame? 
John,  and  Peter,  and  Robert,  and  Paul, 
God  in  his  wisdom  created  them  all. 

Out  in  that  region  of  infinite  light, 

Where  the  soul  of  the  black   man   is   pure  as  the 

white  — 

Out  where  the  spirit,  through  sorrow  made  wise, 
No  longer  resorts  to  deception  and  lies  — 
Out  where  the  flesh  can  no  longer  control 
The  freedom  and  faith  of  the  God-given  soul  — 
Who  shall  determine  what  change  may  befall 
John,  and  Peter,  and  Robert,  and  Paul? 

John  may  in  wisdom  and  goodness  increase  — 

Peter  rejoice  in  an  infinite  peace  — 

Robert  may  learn  that  the  truths  of  the  Lord 

Are  more  in  the  spirit,  and  less  in  the  word  — 

And  Paul  may  be  blest  witlj  a  holier  birth 

Than   the   passions  of  man   had    allowed   him   on 

earth. 

John,  and  Peter,  and  Robert,  and  Paul, 
God  in  his  wisdom  will  care  for  them  all. 


14  POEMS   OF   PROGRESS. 


LET  THY  KINGDOM  COME. 

THE  peaceful  night,  "  the  stilly  night," 
Came  down  on  wings  of  purple  gloom, 

And  with  her  eyes  of  starry  light, 

Looked  through  the  darkness  of  my  room ; 

Peace  was  the  pillow  for  my  head, 

While  angels  watched  around  my  bed. 

Freed  from  a  weight  of  cumbering  care, 
My  earnest  spirit  seemed  to  rise, 

And  on  the  wings  of  faith  and  prayer, 
I  sought  the  gates  of  Paradise ; 

Like  priceless  pearls  I  saw  them  gleam, 

As  in  the  Revelator's  dream. 

O,  holy,  holy  was  the  song 

Of  blessed  spirits  echoing  thence, 

So  soft  and  clear  it  swept  along, 
It  ravished  all  my  soul  and  sense ; 

Close  to  those  gates  of  light  I  crept, 

And  like  a  homeless  orphan  wept. 


LET    THY    KINGDOM   COME.  15 

The  white-robed  angels  went  and  came  — 
The  white-robed  angels  saw  me  there — 

And  one,  in  our  dear  Father's  name, 
Came  at  my  spirit's  voiceless  prayer. 

"Dear  child,"  he  said,  "why  dost  thou  wait 

With  weeping  at  the  heavenly  gate  ? " 

"O,  weary  are  my  feet,"  I  cried, 

"With  wandering  o'er  the  earthly  way; 

Lo,  all  my  hopes  hang  crucified, 
And  all  my  idols  turn  to  clay; 

Far  distant  now  the  Father  seems, 

And  heaven  comes  only  in  my  dreams." 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  my  head, 

"And  tenderly  the  angel  smiled. 
"  Thy  Father  knows  thy  need,"  he  said, 

"And  he  will  aid  his  suffering  child. 
Return  unto  thine  earthly  home  — 
His  kingdom  yet  shall  surely  come." 

Obedient  at  the  word  I  turned, 

And  sought  mine  earthly  home  once  more, 
While  all  my  soul  within  me  burned, 

With  joy  I  never  knew  before ; 
For  that  blest  vision  of  the  night 
Had  filled  me  with  celestial  light. 


16  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

Still  o'er  my  life  its  glories  stream, 
The  solace  of  my  lonely  hours, 

Fair  as  the  sunset's  golden  gleam, 

And  lovely  as  the  bloom  of  flowers; 

A  sweet  assurance,  calm  and  deep, 

Which  treasured  in  my  soul  I  keep. 

Henceforth  I  wait  with  anxious  eyes, 
Until  the  shadows  flee  away, 

To  see  the  morning  star  arise, 

Which  ushers  in  that  glorious  day. 

Be  patient,  O  my  heart!  be  still 

Till  time  the  promise  shall  fulfill. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF   NATURE.  17 


THE   SPIRIT  OF  NATURE. 

"  The  bond  which  unites  the  human  to  the  divine  is  Love,  and  Love 
is  the  longing  of  the  Soul  for  Beauty;  the  inextinguishable  desire 
which  like  feels  for  like,  which  the  divinity  within  us  feels  for  the 
divinity  revealed  to  us  in  Beauty.  Beauty  is  Truth."  —  PLATO. 

I  HAVE  come  from  the  heart  of  .all  natural  things, 
Whose  life  from  the  Soul  of  the  Beautiful  springs ; 
You  shall  hear  the  sweet  Avaving  of  corn  in  my 

voice, 

And  the  musical  whisper  of  leaves  that  rejoice, 
For  my  lips  have  been  touched   by  the  spirit  of 

prayer, 

Which  lingers  unseen  in  the  soft  summer  air ; 
And  the  smile  of  the  sunshine  that  brightens  the 

skies, 
Hath  left  a  glad  ray  of  its  light  in  my  eyes. 

On    the   sea-beaten   shore  —  'mid   the   dwellings  of 

men  — 
In  the  field,  or  the  forest,  or  wild  mountain  glen; 

2 


18  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

Wherever  the  grass  or  a  daisy  could  spring, 
Or  the  musical  laughter  of  childhood  could  ring ; 
Wherever  a  swallow  could  build  'neath  the  eaves, 
Or  a  squirrel  could  hide  in  his  covert  of  leaves, 
I  have  felt  the  sweet  presence,  and  heard  the  low 

call, 
Of  the  Spirit  of  Nature,  which  quickens  us  all. 

Grown  weary  and  worn  with  the  conflict  of  creeds, 
I  had  sought  a  new  faith  for  the  soul  with  its  needs, 
When  the  love  of  the  Beautiful  guided  my  feet 
Through  a  leafy  arcade  to  a  sylvan  retreat, 

Where  the  oriole  sung  in  the  branches  above, 

And  the  wild  roses  burned  with   their  blushes  of 
love. 

And  the   purple-fringed   aster,  and    bright   golden- 
rod, 

Like  jewels  of  beauty  adorned  the  green  sod. 

O,  how  blessed  to  feel  from  the  care-laden  heart 
All  the  sorrows  and  woes  that  oppressed  it  depart, 
And  to  lay  the  tired  head,  with  its  achings,  to  rest 
On  the  heart  of  all  others  that  loves  it  the  best; 
O,  thus  is  it  ever,  when,  wearied,  we  yearn 
To  the  bosom  of  Nature  and  Truth  to  return, 
And  life  blossoms  forth  into  beauty  ane\v, 
As  we  learn  to  repose  in  the  Simple  and  True. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    NATURE.  19 

No  longer  with  self  or  with  Nature  at  strife, 
The  soul  feels  the  presence  of  Infinite  Life ; 
And  the  voice  of  a  child,  or  the  hum  of  a  bee  — 
The  somnolent  roll  of  the  deep-heaving  sea  — 
The  mountains  uprising  in  grandeur  and  v  might- — 
The  stars  that  look  forth  from  the  depths  of  the 

night  — 

All  speak  in  one  language,  persuasive  and  clear, 
To  him  who  in  spirit  is  waiting  to  hear. 

There  is  something  in  Nature  beyond  our  control, 
That  is  tenderly  winning  the  love  of  each  soul; 
We  shall  linger  no  longer  in  darkness  and  doubt, 
When  the  Beauty  within  meets  the  Beauty  with 
out. 

Sweet  Spirit  of  Nature !  wherever  thou  art, 
O,  fold  us  like  children,  close,  close  to  thy  heart; 
Till  we  learn  that   thy  bosom  is  Truth's   hallowed 

shrine, 
And  the  Soul  of  the  Beautiful  is  —  the  Divine. 


20  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 


MARGERY    MILLER. 

OLD  Margery  Miller  sat  alone, 

One  Christmas  eve,  by  her  poor  hearthstone, 

Where  dimly  the  fading  firelight  shone. 

Her  brow  was  furrowed  with  signs  of  care, 
Her  lips  moved  gently,  as  if  in  prayer —  • 
For  O,  life's  burden  was  hard  to  bear. 
Poor  old  Margery  Miller! 
Sitting  alone, 
Unsought,  unknown, 
Her  friends,  like  the  birds  of  summer  had  flown. 

Full  eighty  summers  had  swiftly  sped, 
Full  eighty  winters  their  snows  had  shed, 
With  silver-sheen,  on  her  aged  head. 

One  by  one  had  her  loved  ones  died  — 
One  by  one  had  they  left  her  side  — 
Fading  like  flowers  in  their  summer  pride. 


MARGERY    MILLER.  21 

Poor  old  Margery  Miller! 
Sitting  alone, 
Unsought,  unknown, 
Had  God  forgotten  she  was  his  own? 

No  castle  was  hers  with  a  spacious  lawn; 
Her  poor  old  hut  was  the  proud  man's  scorn; 
Yet  Margery  Miller  was  nobly  born. 

A  brother  she  had,  who  once  wore  a  crown, 
Whose  deeds  of  greatness  and  high  renown 
From  age  to  age  had  been  handed  down. 
Poor  old  Margery  Miller! 

Sitting  alone, 

Unsought,  unknown, 
Where  was  her  kingdom,  her  crown  or  throne  ? 

Margery  Miller,  a  child  of  God, 
Meekly  and  bravely  life's  path  had  trod, 
Nor  deemed  affliction  a,  "chastening  rod." 

Her  brother,  Jesus,  who  went  before, 
A  crown  of  thorns  in  his  meekness  wore, 
And  what,  poor  soul !  could  she  hope  for  more  ? 
Poor  old  Margery  Miller! 

Sitting  alone, 

Unsought,  unknown, 
Strange  that  her  heart  had  not  turned  to  stone! 


22  POEMS    OP   PROGRESS. 

Ay,  there  she  sat,  on  that  Christmas  eve, 
Seeking  some  dream  of  the  past  to  weave, 
Patiently  striving  not  to  grieve. 

O,  for  those  long,  long  eighty  years, 
How  had  she  struggled  with  doubts  and  fears, 
Shedding  in  secret  unnumbered  tears! 
Poor  old  Margery  Miller! 
Sitting  alone, 
Unsought,  unknown, 
How  could  she  stifle  her  sad  heart's  moan? 


Soft  on  her  ear  fell  the  Christmas  chimes, 
Bringing  the  thought  of  the  dear  old  times, 
Like  birds  that  sing  of  far  distant  climes. 

Then  swelled  the  flood  of  her  pent-up  grief  - 
Swayed  like  a  reed  in  the  tempest  brief, 
Her  bowed  form  shook  like  an  aspen  leaf. 
Poor  old  Margery  Miller! 
Sitting  alone, 
Unsought,  unknown, 
How  heavy  the  burden  of  life  had  grown  1 


"  O  God ! "  she  cried,  "  I  am  lonely  here, 
Bereft  of  all  that  my  heart  holds  dear; 
Yet  Thou  dost  never  refuse  to  hear. 


MARGERY    MILLER.  23 

"  O,  if  the  dead  were  allowed  to  speak ! 
Could  I  only  look  on  their  faces  meek, 
How  it  would  strengthen  my  heart  so  weak!" 
Poor  old  Margery  Miller! 

Sitting  alone, 

Unsought,  unknown, 
What  was  that  light  which  around  her  shone? 


Dim  on  the  hearth  burned  the  embers  red, 
Yet  soft  and  clear,  on  her  silvered  head, 
A  light  like  the  sunset  glow  was  shed. 

Bright  blossoms  fell  on  the  cottage  floor, 
"Mother"  was  whispered,  as  oft  before, 
And  long-lost  faces  gleamed  forth  once  more. 
Poor  old  Margery  Miller! 
No  longer  alone, 
Unsought,  unknown, 
How  light  the  burden  of  life  had  grown! 

She  lifted  her  withered  hands  on  high, 
And  uttered  the  eager,  earnest  cry, 
"  God  of  all  mercy !  now  let  me  die. 

"  Beautiful  Angels,  fair  and  bright, 
Holding  the  hem  of  your  garments  white, 
Let  me  go  forth  to  the  world  of  light." 


24  POEMS    OF   PKOGRESS. 

Poor  old  Margery  Miller! 
So  earnest  grown ! 
"Was  she  left  alone? 
His  humble  child  did  the  Lord  disown? 

O,  sweet  was  the  sound  of  the  Christmas  bell, 
As  its  musical  changes  rose  and  fell, 
With  a  low  refrain  or  a  solemn  swell. 

But  sweeter  by  far  was  the  blessed  strain, 
That  soothed  old  Margery  Miller's  pain, 
And  gave  her  comfort  and  peace  again. 
Poor  old  Margery  Miller! 
In  silence  alone, 
Her  faith  had  grown ; 
And  now  the  blossom  had  brightly  blown. 

Out  of  the  glory  that  burned  like  flame, 
Calmly  a  great  white  angel  came  — 
Softly  he  whispered  her  humble  name. 

"Child  of  the  highest,"  he  gently  said, 
"Thy  toils  are  ended,  thy  tears  are  shed, 
And  life  immortal  now  crowns  thy  head." 
Poor  old  Margery  Miller! 

No  longer  alone, 

Unsought,  unknown, 
God  had  not  forgotten  she  was  his  own. 


MARGERY    MILLER.  25 

A  change  o'er  her  pallid  features  passed; 
She  felt  that  her  feet  were  neaiing  fast 
The  land  of  safety  and  peace,  at  last. 

She  faintly  murmured,  "God's  name  be  blest!" 
And  folding  her  hands  on  her  dying  breast, 
She  calmly  sank  to  her  dreamless  rest. 
Poor  old  Margery  Miller! 

Sitting  alone, 

Without  one  moan, 
Her  patient  spirit  at  length  had  flown. 

Next  morning  a  stranger  found  her  there, 
Her  pale  hands  folded  as  if  in  prayer, 
Sitting  so  still  in  her  old  arm-chair. 

He  spoke  —  but  she  answered  not  again, 

For,  far  away  from  all  earthly  pain, 

Her  voice  was  singing  a  joyful  strain. 
Poor  old  Margery  Miller! 
Her  spirit  had  flown 
To  the  world  unknown, 

Where  true  hearts  never  can  be  alone. 


26  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 


THE   LAW   OF  LIFE. 

DEEPLY  musing 
On  the  many  mysteries  of  life ; 

Half  excusing 
All  man's  seeming  failures  in  the  strife ; 

Through  the  city 
Did  I  take  my  lonely  way  at  night ; 

Filled  with  pity 

For  the  miseries  that  met  my  sight, 
In  the  faces,  sickly,  sad  and  sunken, 
In  the  faces,  meager,  mean  and  shrunken, 
Wanton,  leering,  passionate  and  drunken, 
Which  I  saw  that  night, 
Passing  through  the  city  — 
Saw  them  by  the  street-lamps'  changing  light. 

Burning  brightly, 
Looked  the  watching  stars  from  heaven  above; 

As  if  lightly 
They  beheld  these  wrecks  of  human  love. 


THE    LAW    OF    LIFE.  27 

«O,  bow  distant," 
Said  I,  "are  they  from  this  earth  apart! 

How  resistant 

To  the  woes  that  rend  the  human  heart! 
Countless  worlds !  your  radiant  courses  rounding, 
With  your  light  the  depth  of  distance  sounding, 
Is  there  not  some  fount  of  love  abounding? 

O,  thou  starlit  night 
Brooding  o'er. the  city! 

Would    that    truth    might     as     thy    stars     shine 
bright." 

Very  lightly 
Was  a  woman's  hand  laid  on  my  arm. 

Pressing  slightly  — 
And  a  voice  said  —  striving  to  be  calm  — 

"  I  am  dying, 
Slowly  dying  for  the  want  of  love ; 

Vainly  trying 

To  believe  there  is  a  God  above. 
For  I  feel  that  I  am  sinking  slowly, 
Losing  daily,  faith  and  patience  lowly, 
Doomed  to  ways  of  sin  and  deeds  unholy  — 

All  the  weary  night, 
Through  this  cruel  city 
Do  I  wander  till  the  morning  light. 


28  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

"  Hear  me  kindly, 
For  I  am  not  what  I  would  have  been, 

If  most  blindly 
I  had  not  been  tempted  unto  sin. 

I  am  lonely, 
And  I  long  to  shriek  in  anguish  wild, 

O,  if  only 

I  could  be  once  more  a  little  child! 
See!  my  eyes  are  weary-worn  with  weeping; 
SOITOW'S  tide  across  my  soul  is  sweeping ; 
God  no  longer  holds  me  in  his  keeping  — 

I  have  prayed  to-night, 
Wandering  through  the  city, 
That  I  might  not  see  the  morning  light." 

Breathless,  gazing 
On  her  pallid  and  impassioned  face, 

How  amazing 
Was  the  likeness  that  I  there  could  trace! 

"Sister!"    "Brother!" 
From  our  lips  as  by  one  impulse  broke. 

Not  another 

Word,  then,  for  an  instant  brief  we  spoke. 
But  the  sweet  and  tender  recollection 
Of  our  childhood,  with  its  fond  affection, 
And  at  last,  the  broken,  lost  connection, 


THE    LAW    OF   LIFE.  29 

Came  afresh  that  night, 
Standing  in  the  city 
Underneath  the  street-lamps'  changing  light. 

Pale  and  slender, 
Like  a  lily  did  she  bow  her  head. 

Low  and  tender 
Was  the  earnest  tone  in  which  she  said  — 

"  O,  my  brother ! 
Tell  me  of  our  father."  —  "  He  is  dead." 

"And  our  mother?" 
"And  she,  also,  rests  in  peace,"  I  said. 
Only  to  my  grievous  words  replying, 
By  a  long-drawn,  deep  and  painful  sighing, 
Sinking  downward,  as  if  crushed  and  dying, 

Did  she  seem  that  night, 
Standing  in  the  city 
Underneath  the  street-lamps'  changing  light. 

Wherefore  should  I 
Thrust  her  from  my  guilty  heart  away? 

Ah,  how  could  I ! 
Whatsoe'er  the  righteous  world  might  say  — 

She,  my  sister, 
One  who  shared  in  mine  own  life  a  part  — 

Nay,  I  kissed  her, 
And  upraised  her  to  a  brother's  heart. 


30  POEMS    OF   PIIOGKESS. 

And  I  said,  "  Henceforth  we  will  not  sever, 
But  with  faith  and  patience  failing  never, 
We  will  work  for  truth  and  right  forever. 

Ministers  of  light, 
Watching  o'er  the  city! 
Guide !  O,  guide  our  erring  feet  aright ! " 

Gently  o'er  us 
Came  a  breath  of  warm  and  balmy  air, 

And  before  us 
Stood  a  man  with  silvery,  flowing  hair. 

How  appearing 
From  the  murky  gloom  that  round  us  fell, 

Mild  and  cheering 
In  his  presence,  I  could  never  tell. 
But  I  say  with  solemn  asservation, 
That  it  was  no  fanciful  creation, 
Bearing  to  this  life  no  true  relation, 

Which  we  saw  that  night, 
Standing  in  the  city, 
Underneath  the  street-lamps'  changing  light. 

«  Children  ! "  said  he, 
"  One  of  life's  great  lessons  you  are  taught ; 

Be  then  ready 
To  apply  the  teaching  as  you  ought. 


THE    LAW    OF    LIFE.  31 

All  are  brothers  — 
All  are  sisters  in  this  lower  life. 

Many  others 

Make  sad  failures  in  the  weary  strife ; 
But  each  failure  is  a  grand  expression 
Of  the  law  which  underlies  progression, 
Which  will  raise  the  soul  above  transgression. 

Yea,  this  very  night, 
All  throughout  this  city, 
Every  soul  is  striving  toward  the  light." 

"  Bruised  and  broken, 
Many  hearts  in  patient  sorrow  wait, 

To  hear  spoken 
Words  of  love,  which  often  come  too  late. 

Lift  their  crosses, 
And  their  sins  —  the  heaviest  load  of  all  — 

Bear  their  losses, 

And  be  patient  with  them  when  they  fall." 
Then  he  vanished,  as  the  "shadows  parted, 
Leaving  us  alone,  but  hopeful  hearted, 
Gazing  into  space  where  he  departed 

From  our  wondering  sight, 
In  that  mazy  city  — 
Vanished  in  the  shadows  of  the  night. 


32  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

Sacred  presence ! 
Dwelling  just  beyond  our  mortal  sense, 

Through  thine  essence, 
Fill  our  beings  with  a  life  intense. 

By  ci'eation 
Man  fulfills  a  destiny  sublime, 

And  salvation 

Comes  to  each  in  its  appointed  time. 
In  that  region  of  celestial  splendor, 
Where  the  angel-faces  look  so  tender, 
Human  weakness  needeth  no  defender. 

In  the. perfect  light 
Of  the  heavenly  city, 
Souls  can  read  the  law  of  life  aright. 


A  RESPECTABLE  LIE.  33 


A  RESPECTABLE  LIE. 

"A  RESPECTABLE  lie,  sir !    Pray  what  do  you  mean? 

Why  the  term  in  itself  is  a  plain  contradiction. 
A  lie  is  a  lie,  and  deserves  no  respect, 

But  merciless  judgment,  and  speedy  conviction. 
It  springs  from  corruption,  is  servile  and  mean, 

An  evil  conception,  a  coward's  invention, 
And  whether  direct,  or  but  simply  implied, 

Has  naught  but  deceit  for  its  end  and  intention." 

Ah,  yes  !  very  well !     So  good  morals  would  teach ; 
But    facts    are    the    most    stubborn     things    in 

existence, 

And  they  tend  to  show  that  great  lies  win  respect, 
And    hold    their    position    with    wondrous    per 
sistence. 
The  small  lies,  the  white  lies,  the  lies  feebly  told, 

The  world  will  condemn  both  in  spirit  and  letter; 
But  the  great,  bloated  lies  will  be  held  in  respect, 
And  the  larger  and  older  a  lie  is,  the  better. 
3 


34  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

A  respectable  lie,  from  a  popular  man, 

On  a  popular  theme,  never  taxes  endurance  ; 
And  the  pure,  golden  coin  of  unpopular  truth, 

Is  often  refused  for  the  brass  of  assurance. 
You  may  dare  all  the  laws  of  the  land  to  defy, 

And    bear    to    the    truth     the    most    shameless 

relation, 
But  never  attack  a  respectable  lie, 

If  you  value  a  name,  or  a  good  reputation. 

A  lie  well  established,  and  hoary  with  age, 

Resists  the  assaults  of  the  boldest  seceder ; 
While  he  is  accounted  the  greatest  of  saints, 

Who  silences  reason  and  follows  the  leader. 
Whenever  a  mortal  has  dared  to  be  Avise, 

And   seize    upon   Truth,    as    the    soul's    "Magna 

Cliarta," 
He  always  has  won  from  the  lovers  of  lies, 

The  name  of  a  fool,  or  the  fate  of  a  martyr. 

There  are  popular  lies,  and  political  lies, 

And   "lies  that  stick    fast    between    buying   and 

selling," 
And  lies  of  politeness  —  conventional  lies  — 

(Which   scarcely   arc   reckoned   as    such    in   the 
telling.) 


A  RESPECTABLE  LIE.  35 

There    are    lies    of   sheer    malice,   and    slanderous 

lies, 
From    those    who   delight   to   peck   filth   like    a 

pigeon ; 
But  the  oldest  and  far  most  respectable  lies, 

Are    those    that    are   told   in    the   name    of   Re- 


Theology  sits  like  a  tyrant  enthroned, 

A  system  per  se  with  a  fixed  nomenclature, 
Derived   from   strange  doctrines,  and   dogmas,  and 

creeds, 
At  Avar  with   man's   reason,  with  God  and   with 

Nature ; 
And  he  who  subscribes  to  the  popular  faith, 

Never  questions  the  fact  of  divine  inspiration, 
But  holds  to  the  Bible  as  absolute  truth, 

From     Genesis     through     to    St.    John's    Reve 
lation. 

We  mock  at  the  Catholic  bigots  at  Rome, 

Who  strive  with   their  dogmas   man's  reason   to 

fetter ; 

But  we  turn  to  the  Protestant  bigots  at  home, 
And   we   find    that    their   dogmas    are    scarce   a 
Avhit  better. 


36  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS.' 

We    are    called    to   believe    in   the   wrath    of  the 

Lord  — 

In  endless  damnation,  and  torments  infernal; 
While  around  and  above  us,  the  Infinite  Truth, 
Scarce    heeded    or    heard,   speaks    sublime    and 
eternal. 

It  is  sad  —  but  the  day-star  is  shining  on  high, 

And    Science    comes     in     with    her    conquering 

legions ; 
And  ev'ry  respectable,  time-honored  lie, 

Will  fly  from  her  face  to  the  mythical  regions. 
The  soul  shall  no  longer  with  terror  behold 

The  red  waves  of  wrath  that  leap  up  to  engulf 

her, 
For  Science  ignores  the  existence  of  hell, 

And  chemistry  linds  better  uses  for  sulphur. 

We  may  dare  to  repose  in  the  beautiful  faith, 
That     an     Infinite     Life    is    the    source    of    all 

being  ; 
And    though   we   must    strvt^   with    delusion    and 

Death, 

We    can    trust    to    a    love   and   a  wisdom    all- 
seeing  ; 


A    RESPECTABLE    LIE.  37 

We    may   dare    in    the    strength    of   the    soul    to 

arise, 
And  walk   where  our  feet   shall   not   stumble  or 

falter ; 

And,  freed  from  the  bondage  of  time-honored  lies, 
To  lay  all  we  have  on  the  Truth's   sacred  altar. 


38  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 


THE  RAINBOW  BRIDGE. 

'TWAS    a   faith    that   was   held   by  the    Northmen 
bold, 

In  the  ages  long,  long  ago, 
That  the  river  of  death,  so  dark  and  cold, 

Was  spanned  by  a  radiant  bow; 
A  rainbow  bridge  to  the  blest  abode 

Of  the  strong  Gods  —  free  from  ill, 
Where  the  beautiful  Urda  fountain  flowed, 

Near  the  ash  tree  Igdrasill. 

They  held  that  when,  in  life's  weary  march, 

They  should  come  to  that  river  wide, 
They  would  set  their  feet  on  the  shining  arch, 

And  would  pass  to  the  other  side. 
And    they   said   that   the    Gods    and    the    Heroes 
crossed 

That  bridge  from  the  world  of  light, 
To  strengthen  the  Soul  when  its  hope  seemed  lost, 

In  the  conflict  for  the  right. 


THE    RAINBOW    BRIDGE.  39 

O,  beautiful  faith  of  the  grand  old  past! 

So  simple,  yet  so  sublime, 
A  light  from  that  rainbow  bridge  is  cast 

Far  down  o'er  the  tide  of  time. 
We  raise  our  eyes,  and  we  see  above, 

The  souls  in  their  homeward  march ; 
They  wave  their  hands  and  they  smile  in  love, 

From  the  height  of  the  rainbow  arch. 

We  know  they  will  drink  from  the  fountain  pure 

That  springs  by  the  Tree  of  Life, 
AVe  know  that  their  spirits  will  rest  secure 

From  the  tempests  of  human  strife  ; 
So  we  fold  our  hands,  and  we  close  our  eyes, 

And  we  strive  to  forget  our  pain, 
Lest  the  weak  and  the  selfish  wish  should  rise, 

To  ask  for  them  back  again. 

The  swelling  tide  of  our  grief  we  stay, 

While  our  warm  hearts  fondly  yearn, 
And  we  ask  if  over  that  shining  way 

They  shall  nevermore  return. 
O,  we  oft  forget  that  our  lonely  hours 

Are  known  to  the  souls  we  love, 
And   they  strew  the  path  of  our  life  with  flowers, 

From,  that  rainbow  arch  above. 


40  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

We  hear  them  call,  and  their  voices  sweet 

Float  clown  from  that  bridge  of  light, 
Where  the  gold  and  crimson  and  azure  meet, 

And  mingle  their  glories  bright. 
We  hear  them  call,  and  the  soul  replies, 

From  the  depths  of  the  life  below, 
And  we  strive  on  the  wings  of  faith  to  rise 

To  the  height  of  that  radiant  bow. 

Like  the  crystal  ladder  that  Jacob  saw, 

Is  that  beautiful  vision  given, 
The  weary  pilgrims  of  earth  to  draw 

To  the  life  of  their  native  heaven. 
For  'tis  better  that  souls  should  upward  tend, 

And  strive  for  the  victor's  crown, 
Than  to  ask  the  angels  their  help  to  lend, 

And  come  to  man's  weakness  down. 

That  rainbow  bridge  in  the  crystal  dome, 

O'er  a  swiftly  flowing  tide, 
Is  the  shining  way  to  the  spirit  home, 

That  lies  on  the  other  side. 
To  man  is  the  tempest  cloud  below, 

And  the  storm  wind's  fatal  breath, 
But  for  those   who   cross   o'er  that   shining  bow, 

There  is  no  more  pain  nor  death. 


THE    RAINBOW    BRIDGE.  41 

O,  fair  and  bright  does  that  archway  stand, 

Through  the  silent  lapse  of  years, 
Fashioned  and  reared  by  no  human  hand, 

From  the  sunshine  of  love  and  tears. 
Sweet  spirits,  our  footsteps  are  nearing  fast 

The  light  of  the  shining  shore ; 
We  shall  cross  that  rainbow  bridge  at  last, 

And  greet  you  in  joy  once  more. 


42  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 


REST  THOU  IN  PEACE. 

"  And  the  token  that  the  angel  gave  her,  that  he  was  a  true  mes 
senger,  was  an  arrow,  with  a  point  sharpened  with  Love,  let  easily 
into  her  heart,  which  by  degrees  wrought  so  effectually  with  her, 
that  at  the  time  appointed  she  must  be  gone." 

PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS. 

REST  thou  in  peace!     Beneath  the  sheltering  sod 
There  is  a  lowly  door,  a  narrow  way, 

That  leadeth  to  the  Paradise  of  God ; 

There,  weary  pilgrim,  let  thy  wanderings  stay. 

Rest  thou  in  peace !     We  would  not  call  thee  back 
To  know  the  grief  that  comes  with  riper  years, 

To  tread  in  sorrow  all  Life's  thorny  track, 
And  drain  with  us  the  bitter  cup  of  tears. 

Rest  thou  in  peace!     With   chastened   hearts   we 
bow, 

And  pour  for  thee  a  low  and  solemn  strain; 
Thy  voice  shall  chant  the  hymns  of  Zion  now, 

But  it  shall  mingle  not  with  ours  again. 


REST    THOU    IN    PEACE.  43 

Rest  thou  in  peace !     Not  in  the  silent  grave  — 
Thy  spirit  heard  the  summons  from  above, 

And  blessed  the  token  that  the  angel  gave — 
An  arrow,  sharpened  —  but  with  tenderest  love. 

Rest  thou  in  peace!  With  blessings  on  thy  head, 
Pass  to  the  land  where  sinless  spirits  dwell  — 

Gone,  but  not  lost !  —  We  will  not  call  thee  dead — 
The  angels  claimed  thee!  Dear  one  —  Fare-thee- 
well. 


44  POEMS    OF    PKOGKESS. 


ANGEL  LILY. 

OF  all  the  flowers  that  greet  the  light, 
Or  open  'neath  the  summer's  sun, 

With  fragrance  sweet,  and  beauty  bright, 
The  Lily  is  the  fairest  one, 

And  in  its  incense-cup  there  lies 

A  perfume,  as  from  Paradise. 

O,  once  there  lived  a  fair,  sweet  child, 
And  Lily  was  her  gentle  name; 

As  beautiful  and  meekly  mild, 

As  if  from  Heaven's  pure  life  she  came  — 

A  breathing  psalm,  a  living  prayer, 

To  make  men  think  of  worlds  more  fair. 

O,  there  was  sunshine  in  her  smile, 

And  music  in  her  dancing  feet, 
And  every  tender,  artless  wile, 

Made  her  dear  presence  seem  more  sweet; 
But  ever  in  her  childish  play, 
A  strange,  unfathomed  mystery  lay. 


ANGEL    LILY.  45 

Her  playmates  —  well,  we  could  not  see 
That  which  our  darling  Lily  saw  — 

But  often  in  her  childish  glee, 

She  filled  our  loving  hearts  with  awe, 

When,  pointing  to  the  viewless  air, 

She  told  us  of  the  Angels  there. 

"  O,  very  beautiful ! "  she  said, 

"And  very  gentle  are  they  all; 
At  night  they  watch  around  my  bed, 

And  always  answer  to  my  call. 
I  asked  to  go  with  them  one  day, 
But  a  tall  angel  told  me  nay." 

Yes  —  the  "tall  Angel"  told  her  nay, 

But  it  was  only  for  a  time; 
We  knew  our  Lily  could  not  stay 

Long  in  this  uncongenial  clime. 
Into  their  home  of  love  and  light 
The  Angels  led  her  from  our  sight. 

They  led  her  from  the  earth  away, 

Into  the  blessed  "summer-land," 
Leaving  to  us  her  form  of  clay, 

With  budding  lilies  in  the  hand ; 
An  emblem  of  her  life,  to  be 
Unfolded  in  Eternity. 


46  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

O,  though  there  falls  a  gloom  like  night 
From  Sorrow's  overshadowing  wing, 

How  often  does  returning  light 

A  ray  of  heavenly  brightness  bring, 

And  problems  that  were  dark  before 

Can  vex  the  soul  with  doubt  no  more. 

Beneath  that  heavy  cloud  we  stood, 

Through  which  no  ray  of  gladness  stole, 

But  well  we  knew  that  Sorrow's  flood 
Would  cleanse  and  purify  the  soul; 

And  when  its  ministry  should  cease, 

Our  lives  would  blossom  fair  with  peace. 

One  evening,  when  the  summer  moon 
With  silver  radiance  filled  the  sky, 

And  through  the  fragrant  flowers  of  June 
The  balmy  breeze  sighed  dreamily, 

With  spirits  calm  and  reconciled, 

We  talked  of  our  dear  Angel  child. 

We  spoke  of  her  we  loved  so  well, 
As  one  who  only  went  before  — 

When  lo!  just  where  the  moonlight  fell 
With  mellow  lustre  on  the  floor, 

We  saw  our  own  sweet  darling  stand, 

With  half-blown  lilies  in  her  hand. 


ANGEL    LILY.  47 

She  seemed  more  beautiful  and  fair 
Than  when  a  simple  child  of  earth; 

The  golden  glory  in  her  hair 
Betokened  her  celestial  birth ; 

But  as  she  sweetly  looked  and  smiled, 

We  knew  she  was  our  own  dear  child. 

O,  strange  to  say!  we  did  not  start, 

We  did  not  even  wildly  weep, 
For  each  had  schooled  the  wayward  heart 

The  law  of  perfect  peace  to  keep  — 
And  deep  as  Love's  unfnthomed  sea 
Had  been  our  faith  that  this  would  be. 

O;  shall  we  tell  those  moments  o'er  — 
And  all  her  words  of  love  ropeat — 

And  say  how,  through  Time's  open  do<5r 
She  glided  in  with  noiseless  feet? 

Nay,  rather  let  us  purely  hold 

Such  things  too  sacred  to  be  told. 

Enough  to  say  wre  wait  our  time, 

With  heaven's  own  sunshine  in  the  heart, 

Rejoicing  in  the  faith  sublime, 

That  those  who  love  can  never  part, 

And  wheresoe'er  the  soul  may  dwell, 

That  God  will  order  all  things  well. 


48  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 


THE  ALL  IN  ALL. 

How  beautiful  the  roses  bloom 
Around  the  portals  of  the  tomb ! 
How  fair  the  meek  white  lilies  grow 
From  elements  of  death  below! 
How  tender  and  serenely  bright 
The  stars  light  up  the  depths  of  night! 

Thus  beauty  unto  ruin  clings, 
And  light  from  deepest  darkness  springs ; 
The  Soul  its  noblest  strength  must  gain 
Through  ministries  of  grief  and  pain ; 
Great  victories  only  come  through  strife, 
And  death  is  but  the  gate  of  life. 

The  ocean  waves  that  darkly  flow. 
Sweep  over  priceless  pearls  below ; 
The  tempest  cloud,  when  wild  winds  rest, 
Builds  up  the  rainbow  on  its  breast, 
And  truths,  unseen  when  all  is  bright, 
Shine  like  the  stars  in  sorrow's  night. 


THE    ALL    IN   ALL.  49 

O  Thou,  in  whom  the  vine  bears  fruit! 
In  whom  the  violets  take  their  root, 
For  Thee  the  summer  roses  blow; 
For  Thee  the  fair  white  lilies  grow; 
And  from  Thine  all-sustaining  heart 
The  Soul's  immortal  currents  start. 

O,  when  the  circle,  made  complete, 
Shall  in  thy  boundless  being  meet, 
We  feel,  we  know,  that  we  shall  be 
Made  perfect  in  our  love  to  Thee; 
That  good  will  triumph  in  that  hour, 
And  weakness  be  exchanged  for  power. 
4 


50  POEMS    OF   PEOGEESS. 


"ECCE    HOMO." 

"  When  the  Son  of  Man  comcth,  shall  he  find  faith  in  the  earth .' " 

LUKExviii.  8. 

THE  merry  Christmas  time, 
With  song  and  silvery  chime, 

Had  come  at  last ; 
And  brightly  glowed  each  hearth, 
While  winter,  o'er  the  earth, 

Its  snows  had  cast. 
High  in  the  old  cathedral  tower, 

The  ponderous  bell  majestic  swung, 
And  with  its  voice  of  solemn  power 
A  sunjmons  to  the  people  rung. 

Then,  forth  from  lowly  walls, 
And  proud,  ancestral  halls, 

Came  rich  and  poor, 
And  faces  wreathed  with  smiles 
Thronged  the  cathedral  aisles 

As  ne'er  before. 


"KCCE  HOMO."  51 

Rich  silks  trailed  o'er  the  marble  pave. 
And  costly  jewels  glittered  bright, 

For  groined  arch  and  spacious  nave 
Were  radiant  with  excess  of  light. 

The  deep-toned  organ's  swell 
Like  billows  rose  and  fell, 

In  floods  of  sound ; 
And  the  "Te  Deum"  rung, 
As  if  by  angels  sung, 
In  space  profound. 
Forth  the  majestic  anthem  rolled 
In  harmony  complete,  and  then 
Pealed  forth  the  angels'  song  of  old, 
Of  "  peace  on  earth,  good  Avill  to  men." 

As  the  full  chorus  ceased, 

Up  rose  the  white-robed  priest, 

With  solemn  air; 

With  hands  toward  heaven  outspread, 
He  bowed  his  stately  head 

In  formal  prayer. 
Then,  like  some  breathless,  holy  spell, 

Upon  the  hushed  and  reverent  crowd, 
A  deep,  impressive  silence  fell, 

And  hands  were  clasped,  and  heads  were 
bowed. 


52  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

"  Saviour  of  All !  "  he  cried, 
"Thou  who  wast  crucified 

For  sinful  man ! 
We  worship  at  thy  feet, 
For  thou  hast  made  complete 

Salvation's  plan. 
Come  to  thy  people,  Lord,  once  more, 

And  let  the  nations  hear  again 
The  song  the  angels  sung  of  yore, 

Of  *  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men.' " 

As  if  his  prayer  was  heard, 
A  sudden  trembling  stirred 

The  walls  around. 
The  doors,  wide  open  flung, 
On  ponderous  hinges  swung, 

With  solemn  sound. 
And  then,  straight  up  the  foot-worn  aisle, 

A  strange  procession  made  its  way, 
In  garments  coarse,  of  simplest  style, 
A  strange,  incongruous  array. 

The  first,  most  rudely  clad, 
A  leathern  girdle  had 

About  him  bound. 
The  next,  in  humblest  guise, 
Raised  not  his  mournful  eyes 

From  off  the  ground. 


"ECCE  HOMO."  53 

And  next  to  these  the  dusky  browed, 
And  others,  flushed  with  sin  and  shame, 

And  women,  with  their  faces  bowed 
In  deep  contrition,  slowly  came. 

No  voice  was  heard,  or  sound, 
From  the  vast  concourse  round, 

Outspreading  wide. 
But  onward  still  they  passed, 
Until  they  gained  at  last 

The  altar  side. 
Then  said  the  lowly  one,  "  O  ye ! 

Who  celebrate  a  Saviour's  birth, 
Should  he  return  again,  would  he 

Find  faith  among  the  sons  of  earth  ? " 

Quick,  with  an  angry  frown, 
The  haughty  priest  looked  down 

Upon  the  crowd. 
"Who  are  ye,  that  ye  dare 
Invade  this  house  of  prayer  ?  " 

He  cried  aloud. 
"  This  temple,  sacred  to  the  Lord, 

Not  thus  shall  be  profaned  by  you : 
Your  deeds  with  his  do  not  accord  — 
Begone!     Begone,  ye  vagrant  crewl" 


54  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

The  lowly  one  replied, 
"These,  standing  by  my  side, 

Came  at  my  call ; 
Nor  need  they  have  one  fear, 
With  me  to  enter  here  — 

God  loves  them  all. 
Thou  hypocrite !  thou  dost  reject 

Me,  through  thy  most  unchristian  creed, 
And  making  truth  of  none  effect, 
Thou  dost  dishonor  me  indeed." 

Around  the  stranger's  head 
A  radiant  halo  spread 

Its  glories  bright; 
His  meek  and  tender  face 
Beamed  with  transcendent  grace, 

And  heavenly  light. 
There,  mighty  in  his  power  for  good, 

So  gentle  and  divinely  sweet, 
The  "Christus  Consolator"  stood, 
With  weeping  sinners  at  his  feet. 

"We  must  go  hence,"  he  said, 
"To  find  the  living  bread. 

Come,  follow  me ! 
My  Father's  house  above 
Is  full  of  light  and  love, 

And  all  is  free." 


"ECCE  HOMO."  55 

Hish  in  the  old  cathedral  tower, 

~  * 

The  brazen  bell  majestic  swung, 
As  if  some  strange,  mysterious  power 
To  sudden  speech  had  moved  its  tongue. 

O  Christ !  thou  friend  of  men ! 
"When  thou  shalt  come  again, 
Through  Truth's  new  birth, 
May  all  the  fruits  of  peace 
Be  found  in  rich  increase 

Upon  the  earth. 
Then  shall  the  song  of  sweet  accord, 

Sung  by  the  heavenly  hosts  of  yore, 
To  hail  the  coming  of  their  Lord, 
Sound  through  the  ages  evermore. 


56  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 


PETER  McGUIRE;    OR,  NATURE  AND 
GRACE. 

IT  has  always  been  thought  a  most  critical  case, 
When  a  man  was  possessed  of  more  Nature  than 

Grace ; 

For  Theology  teaches  that  man  from  the  first 
Was  a  sinner  by  Nature,  and  justly  accurst ; 
And  "  Salvation  by  Grace  "  was  the  wonderful  plan, 
Which  God  had  invented  to  save  erring  man. 
'Twas  the  only  atonement   he  knew  how  to  make, 
To  annul  the  effects  of  his  own  sad  mistake. 

Now  this  was  the  doctrine  of  good  Parson  Brown, 
Who  preached,  not   long  since,  in  a  small  country 

town. 

He  was  zealous,  and  earnest,  and  could  so  excel 
In  describing  the  tortures  of  sinners  in  Hell, 
That  a  famous  revival  commenced  in  the  place, 
And  hundreds  of  souls  found  "  Salvation  by  Grace ; " 
But  he  felt  that  he  had  not  attained  his  desire, 
Till  he  had  converted  one  Peter  McGuire. 


PETER    McGUIRE  ;    OK,  NATURE    AND    GRACE.       57 

This    man    was    a    blacksmith,   frank,  fearless    and 

bold, 

With  great  brawny  sinews  like  Vulcan  of  old ; 
He  had  little  respect  for  what  ministers  preach, 
And  sometimes  was  very  profane  in  his  speech. 
His  opinions  were  founded  in  clear  common  sense, 
And  he  spoke  as  he  thought,  though  he  oft  gave 

oifense  ; 

But  however  wanting,  in  whole  or  in  part, 
He  was  sound,  and   all  right,  when   you   came   to 

his  heart. 

One  day  the  good  parson,  with  pious  intent, 
To  the  smithy  of  Peter  most  hopefully  went; 
And  there,  while  the  hammer  industriously  swung, 
He    preached,   and   he    prayed,   and    exhorted,  and 

sung, 

And  warned,  and  entreated  poor  Peter  to  fly 
From    the    pit    of    destruction    before    he    should 

die ; 
And  to  wash  himself  clean  from  the  world's  sinful 

strife, 
In  the  Blood  of  the  Lamb,  and  the  River  of  Life. 

Well,  and   what    would    you    now   be   inclined   to 

expect 
Was  the  probable  issue  and  likely  effect? 


58  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

Why,  he  swore   "like  a  Pirate,"  and  what  do  you 

think? 
From    a    little    black     bottle    took    something    to 

drink  ! 
And   he   said,  "I'll   not   mention  the  Blood  of  the 

Lamb, 

But  as  for  that  River  it  aren't  worth  a  ;" 

Then  pausing  —  as  if  to  restrain  his  rude  force  — 
He  quietly  added,  "  a  mill-dam,  of  course." 

Quick  out  ot  the  smithy  the  minister  fled, 

As  if  a  big  bomb-shell  had  burst  near  his  head ; 

And  as  he  continued  to  haste  on  his  way, 

lie  was  too  much  excited  to  sing  or  to  pray; 

But  he  thought  how  that  some  were  elected  by 
Grace, 

As  heirs  of  the  kingdom  —  made  sure  of  their 
place  — 

While  others  were  doomed  to  the  pains  of  Hell- 
fire, 

And  if  e'er  there  was  one  such,  'twas  Peter 
McGuire. 

That   night,  when   the  Storm   King  was  riding  on 

high, 
And   the   red    shafts  of  lightning   gleamed   bright 

through  the  sky, 


PETER    McGUIRE  ;    OR,  NATURE    AND    GRACE.       59 

The  church  of  the  village,  "  the  Temple  of  God," 
Was  struck,  for  the  want  of  a  good  lightning  rod, 
And  swiftly  descending,  the  element  dire 
Set  the  minister's  house,  close  beside  it,  on  fire, 
While  he  peacefully  slumbered,  with  never  a  fear 
Of  the  terrible  work  of  destruction  so  near. 

There  were  Mary,  and   Hannah,  and   Tommy,  and 

Joe, 

All  sweetly  asleep  in  the  bedroom  below, 
While  their  father  was  near,  with  their  mother  at 

rest, 
(Like  the  wife  of  John   Rogers    with  "  one  at  the 

breast.") 

But  Alice,  the  eldest,  a  gentle  young  dove, 
Was  asleep  all  alone,  in  the  room  just  above; 
And  when  the  wild  cry  of  the  rescuer  came, 
She  only  was  left  to  the  pitiless  flame. 

The  fond  mother  counted  her  treasures  of  love, 
When  lo  !  one  was  missiner  —  "O  Father  above!" 

O 

How  madly  she  shrieked  in  her  agony  wild  — 
"  My  Alice !  My  Alice  !     O,  save  my  dear  child ! " 
Then    down   on    his    knees    fell    the   Parson,   and 

prayed 
That    the   terrible   wrath   of   the    Lord   might   be 

stayed. 


60  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

Said  Peter  McGuire,  "Prayer  is  good  in  its  place, 
But  then  it  don't  suit  this  particular  case." 

He  turned  down  the  sleeves  of  his  red  flannel 
shirt. 

To  shield  his  great  arms  all  besmutted  with  dirt; 

Then  into  the  billows  of  smoke  and  of  fire, 

Not  pausing  an  instant,  dashed  Peter  McGuire. 

O,  that  terrible  moment  of  anxious  suspense ! 

How  breathless  their  watching !  their  fear  how 
intense ! 

And  then  their  great  joy!  which  was  freely  ex 
pressed 

When  Peter  appeared  with  the  child  on  his  breast. 

A  shout  rent  the  air  when  the  darling  he  laid 
In  the  arms  of  her  mother,  so  pale  and  dismayed; 
And    as    Alice    looked    up    and     most     gratefully 

smiled, 
He   bowed   down   his   head   and   he   wept   like    a 

child. 
O,  those  tears  of  brave  manhood  that  rained  o'er 

his  face, 
Showed  the  true  Grace  of  Nature,  and  the  Nature 

of  Grace ; 

'Twas  a  manifest  token,  a  visible  sign, 
Of  the  indwelling  life  of  the  Spirit  Divine. 


PETEK   McGUIEE  J   OK,  NATUEE    AND   GRACE.       61 

Consider  such  natures,  and  then,  if  you  can, 
Preach  of  "  total  depravity "  innate  in  man. 
Talk  of  blasphemy !  why,  'tis  profanity  wild ! 
To  say  that  the  Father  thus  cursed  his  own  child. 
Go  learn  of  the  stars,  and  the  dew-spangled  sod, 
That  all  things  rejoice  in  the  goodness  of  God  — 
That  each  thing  created  is  good  in  its  place, 
And  Nature  is  but  the  expression  of  Grace. 


62  POEMS   OF   PROGRESS. 


HYMN   OF  THE  ANGELS. 

O  SACRED  Presence!     Life  Divine! 
We  rear  for  thee  no  gilded  shrine  — 
Unfashioned  by  the  hand  of  Art, 
Thy  temple  is  the  child-like  heart. 
No  tearful  eye,  no  bended  knee, 
No  servile  speech  we  bring  to  Thee; 
For  thy  great  love  tunes  every  voice, 
And  makes  each  trusting  soul  rejoice. 

Then  strike  your  lyres, 

Ye  angel  choirs! 

The  sound  prolong, 

O  white-robed  throng! 
Till  every  creature  joins  the  song. 

We  will  not  mock  Thy  holy  name 

With  titles  high,  of  empty  fame, 

For  Thou,  with  all  Thy  works  and  ways, 

Art  far  beyond  our  feeble  praise; 

But  freely  as  the  birds  that  sing, 

The  soul's  spontaneous  gift  we  bring, 


HYMN   OF    THE   ANGELS.  63 

And  like  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers, 
We  consecrate  to  Thee  our  powers. 

Then  strike  your  lyres, 

Ye  angel  choirs ! 

The  sound  prolong, 

O  white-robed  throng! 
Till  every  creature  joins  the  song. 

All  souls  in  circling  orbits  run, 

Around  Thee  as  their  central  sun; 

And  as  the  planets  roll  and  burn, 

To  Thee,  O  Lord!  for  light  we  turn. 

Nor  Life,  nor  Death,  nor  Time,  nor  Space, 

Shall  rob  us  of  our  name  or  place, 

But  we  shall  love  Thee,  and  adore 

Through  endless  ages  —  Evermore ! 

Then  strike  your  lyres, 

Ye  angel  choirs! 

The  sound  prolong, 

O  white-robed  throng! 
Till  every  creature  joins  the  song. 


64  POEMS    OP    PROGRESS. 


GONE   HOME. 

THEY  called  her,  from  the  better  land, 

And  one  bright  spirit  led  the  way; 
She  saw  the  angel's  beckoning  hand, 

And  felt  she  could  no  longer  stay. 
O  white-robed  Peace !  thy  gentle  cross 

Gave  to  her  trusting  heart  no  pain, 
And  that  which  is  our  earthly  loss, 

Is  unto  her,  eternal  gain. 

"God  is  a  Spirit"  —  we  can  trust 

That  she  has  left  earth's  shadows  dim, 
And  laid  aside  her  earthly  dust, 

To  grow  in  likeness  unto  Him. 
"God  is  a  Spirit"— "God  is  Love"  — 

And  closely  folded  to  his  breast, 
Her  spirit,  like  a  tender  dove, 

Shall  in  His  love  securely  rest. 


GONE    HOME.  65 

O,  it  was  meet  that  flower-wreathed  Spring, 

With  forms  of  living  beauty  rife, 
Should  see  the  perfect  blossoming 

Of  this  bright  spirit  into  life. 
The  flowers  will  bloom  upon  her  grave, 

The  holy  stars  look  down  at  night, 
But  where  bright  palms  immortal  wave, 

She  will  rejoice  in  cloudless  light. 

O,  sweeter  than  the  breath  of  flowers, 

Or  dews  that  summer  roses  weep, 
Deep  in  these  loving  hearts  of  ours 

Her  blessed  memory  we  will  keep. 
Bright  spirit,  let  thy  light  be  given, 

With  tender  and  celestial  ray, 
Beaming  like  some  pure  star  from  heaven, 

To  guide  us  in  our  earthly  way. 

Clad  in  thine  immortality, 

E'en  now  we  hear  thee  joyful  sing — 
"O  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory! 

O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting!" 
Pass  on,  sweet  spirit,  to  increase 

In  every  bright,  celestial  grace, 
Till  in  the  land  of  love  and  peace, 

We  meet  thee,  dear  one,  face  to  face. 
5 


66  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 


THE   CRY  OF  THE  DESOLATE. 


"  It  is  only  with  Renunciation,  that  life,  properly  speaking,  can  be 
said  to  begin." 

"  Light  dawns  upon  me '  There  is  in  man  a  HIGHER  than  love  of 
Happiness  ;  he  can  do  without  happiness,  and  instead  thereof  find 
Blessedness."  —  THOS.  CARLYLE. 


0  GOD  of  the  Eagle  and  Lion ! 
Thy  strength  to  my  being  impart; 

Not  for  wings,  nor  for  sinews  of  iron, 
I  ask,  but  thy  life  in  my  heart. 

1  grope  in  the  dark,  and  seek  blindly 
The  hand  that  shall  lead  to  the  light; 

There  is  no  one  to  answer  me  kindly  — 
There  is  no  one  to  teach  me  the  right. 

An  arrow  from  Fate's  deadly  quiver 
Seemed  carelessly  sped,  at  no  mark, 

But  with  anguish  I  tremble  and  shiver, 
For  it  wounded  my  soul  in  the  dark. 


THE    CRY    OF   THE    DESOLATE.  67 

I  have  suffered  in  silence  unbroken, 

I  have  stanched  the  red  wound  with  my  hand ; 
O  God!  was  the  arrow  Thy  token? 

Did  Fate  but  obey  Thy  command? 

There  is  no  one  on  earth  that  can  render 

My  heart  its  full  measure  of  love ; 
There  is  no  one  on  earth  that  is  tender 

And  true  as  the  angels  above. 
Take  me  up  to  Thy  bosom,  O  strong  One ! 

O  wise  One !     I  am  not  afraid ! 
For  I  know  that  Thou  never  wilt  wrong  one 

Of  those  whom  Thy  wisdom  hath  made. 

These  vestments  of  flesh  that  oppress  us, 

Have  stifled  the  soul's  vital  breath, 
Like  the  torturing  garment  of  Nessus,* 

We  part  from  them  only  in  death. 
O  Thou  marvelous  Soul  of  Existence  ! 

Are  we  doomed  by  the  might  of  Thy  will, 
Unchanged  by  our  feeble  resistance, 

Thy  fathomless  law  to  fulfill? 

O  Fashioner!  Thou  who  hast  guided 

The  tempest  of  atoms  at  strife, 
Hath  not  Thy  compassion  provided 

A  fountain  of  strength  for  each  life  ? 

*  The  garment  which  caused  the  death  of  Hercules. 


68  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

And  doth  not  Time's  changing  phantasma 
Still  move  at  Thy  sovereign  control, 

As  when  in  Earth's  cherishing  plasma 
Was  planted  the  germ  of  the  soul  ? 


Then  lead  me,  for  O,  I  am  lonely! 

And  love  me,  for  I  am  Thine  own  — 
Yes,  Great  One  and  True  One!  Thine 

And  with  Thee  am  never  alone. 
O  God  of  the  Eagle  and  Lion  ! 

Thy  strength  to  my  being  impart; 
Not  for  wings,  nor  for  sinews  of  iron 

I  ask  —  but  Thy  life  in  my  heart. 


THE    SPIRIT-MOTHER.  69 


THE   SPIRIT-MOTHER. 

THROUGH  our  lives'  mysterious  changes, 

Through  the  sorrow-haunted  years, 
Runs  a  law  of  Compensation 

For  our  sufferings  and  our  tears. 
And  the  soul  that  reasons  rightly, 

All  its  sad  complaining  stills, 
Till  it  learns  that  meek  submission, 

Where  it  wishes  not  nor  wills. 

Thus,  in  Sorrow's  fiery  furnace 

Was  a  faithful  mother  tried, 
Till,  through  Love's  divinest  uses, 

All  her  soul  was  purified. 
O  ye  sorrow-stricken  mothers  ! 

Ye  whose  weakness  feeds  your  pain ! 
Listen  to  her  simple  story  — 

Listen !  and  be  strong  again. 

"  It  was  sunset  —  and  the  day-dream 
Of  my  life  was  almost  o'er ; 

For  my  spirit-bark  was  drifting 
Slowly,  slowly  from  the  shore. 


70  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

Dimly  could  I  see  the  sunlight 

Through  my  vine-wreathed  window  shine, 
Faintly  could  I  feel  the  pressure 

Of  a  strong  hand  clasping  mine. 

"But  anew  the  life-tide  started, 

At  my  infant's  feeble  cry; 
Back  my  spirit  turned  in  anguish, 

And  I  felt  I  could  not  die. 
Deeper,  darker  fell  the  shadows, 

Like  the  midnight's  sable  pall, 
And  that  infant  cry  grew  fainter  — 

Fainter  —  fainter  —  that  was  all! 

"  Suddenly  I  heard  sweet  voices 

Mingling  in  a  tender  strain  — 

All  my  mortal  weakness  left  me, 

• 

All  my  anguish  and  my  pain. 
On  my  forehead  fell  the  glory 

Of  the  bright,  celestial  morn, 
I  was  of  the  earth  no  longer, 

For  my  spirit  was  re-born. 

"  Pure,  sweet  faces  bent  above  me, 
Tenderly  they  gazed  and  smiled, 

And  my  Angel-Mother  whispered, 

'Welcome,  welcome  home,  my  child!' 


THE    SPIRIT-MOTHER.  71 

Then,  in  one  melodious  chorus, 

Sang  the  radiant  angel  band, 
*  Welcome  !  O  thou  weary  pilgrim ! 

Welcome  to  the  Spirit  Land ! ' 

"But,  o'er  all  those  glad  rejoicings, 

Rose  again  my  infant's  cry, 
For  my  heart  had  borne  the  echo 

Through  the  portals  of  the  sky. 
And  I  murmured,  O  ye  bright  ones! 

Still  my  earthly  home  is  dear; 
Vain  are  all  your  songs  of  welcome, 

For  I  am  not  happy  here. 

"Strike  your  harps,  ye  white-robed  Angels! 

But  your  music  makes  me  wild, 
For  my  heart  is  with  my  treasure, 

Heaven  is  only  with  my  child ! 
Let  me  go,  and  whisper  comfort 

To  my  little  mourning  dove  — 
Life  is  cold;  O,  let  me  shield  him 

With  a  mother's  tenderest  love ! 

"  Swift  there  came  a  pure,  white  angel, 

Through  the  glory,  shining  far, 
In  her  hand  she  bore  a  lily, 

On  her  forehead  beamed  a  star. 


72  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

Very  beautiful  and  tender 

Was  the  love-light  in  her  eyes, 

Like  the  sunny  smile  of  Summer, 
Beaming  in  the  azure  skies. 

"And  she  said,  'O,  mourning  sister! 

Lo !  thy  prayer  of  love  is  heard, 
For  the  boundless  Heart  of  Being 

By  thine  earnest  cry  is  stirred. 
Heaven  is  life's  divinest  freedom, 

And  no  mandate  bids  thee  stay; 
Go,  and  as  a  star  of  duty, 

Guide  thy  loved  one  on  his  way. 

" '  Life  is  full  of  holy  uses, 

If  but  rightly  understood, 
And  its  evils  and  abuses 

May  be  stepping-stones  to  good. 
Never  seek  to  weakly  shield  him, 

Or  his  destiny  control, 
For  the  wealth  that  grief- shall  yield  him, 

Is  the  birthright  of  his  soul.' 

"Musing  deeply  on  her  meaning, 
Turned  I  from  the  heavenly  shore, 

And  on  love's  swift  wings  descending, 
Sought  my  earthly  home  once  more. 


THE    SPIRIT-MOTHEK.  73 

There  my  widowed,  childless  sister 

Sat  with  meek  and  quiet  grace, 
With  her  heart's  great,  wasting  sorrow, 

Written  on  her  pale,  sweet  face. 

"And  she  sang  in  dreamy  murmurs, 

Bending  o'er  my  Willie's  head, 
'  Hush,  my  dear,  lie  still  and  slumber, 

Holy  angels  guard  thy  bed.' 
Soft  I  whispered,  'Dearest  sister  — 

Darling  Willie  —  I  am  here.' 
Sweetly  smiled  the  sleeping  infant, 

And  the  singer  dropped  a  tear. 

"  Thenceforth  was  my  soul  united 

To  that  life  more  dear  than  mine; 
And  I  prayed  for  strength  to  guide  me, 

From  the  source  of  Life  Divine. 
Slowly  did  I  see  the  meaning 

In  life's  purposes  concealed  — 
All  the  uses  of  temptation, 

Sin  and  sorrow,  stood  revealed. 

"  Through  my  loved  one's  youth  and  manhood, 

In  the  hour  of  sinful  strife, 
I  could  see  the  nobler  issues, 

And  the  grand  design  of  life. 


74  POEMS  or  PROGRESS. 

I  could  see  that  he  was  guided 
By  a  mightier  hand  than  mine, 

And  a  mother's  love  was  weakness, 
By  the  side  of  Love  Divine. 

"Then  I  did  not  seek  to  shield  him, 

Or  his  destiny  control  — 
Life,  with  all  its  varied  changes, 

Was  the  teacher  of  his  soul. 
Nay,  I  did  not  strive  to  alter 

What  I  could  not  make  nor  mend, 
For  the  love  so  full  of  wisdom, 

Could  be  trusted  to  the  end. 

"I  could  give  him  strength  and  courage, 

From  the  treasures  of  my  love  — 
I  could  lead  his  aspirations 

To  the  holy  heart  above ; 
I  could  warn  him  in  temptation, 

That  he  might  not  blindly  fall; 
I  could  wait  with  faith  and  patience 

For  his  triumph  —  that  was  all. 

"  'Mid  the  rush  and  roar  of  battle, 

In  the  carnival  of  death, 
When  the  air  grew  hot  and  heavy, 

With  the  cannon's  fiery  breath, 


THE    SPIKIT-MOTHER.  75 

First  and  foremost  with  the  bravest, 
Who  had  heard  their  country's  call, 

With  the  stars  and  stripes  above  him, 
Did  my  darling  Willie  fall. 

"  Onward  —  onward  rushed  his  comrades, 

With  a  wild,  defiant  cry, 
As  they  charged  upon  the  foeman, 

Leaving  him  alone  to  die. 
Faint  he  murmured,  '  O,  my  mother ! 

Angel  mother!  art  thou  near?' 
And  he  caught  the  whispered  answer, 

'  Darling  Willie,  I  am  here ! 

" '  O,  my  loved  one !  my  true-hearted ! 

Soon  your  anguish  will  be  o'er; 
Then,  in  heaven's  eternal  sunshine, 

We  shall  dwell  for  evermore.' 
Swiftly  o'er  his  pallid  features, 

Gleams  of  heavenly  brightness  passed, 
And  my  Willie's  noble  spirit 

Met  me  face  to  face  at  last. 

"In  a  soldier's  grave  they  laid  him, 
Underneath  the  sheltering  pines, 

Where  the  breezes  made  sweet  music, 
Through  the  gently  swaying  vines. 


76  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

Now  in  heaven,  our  souls  united, 
All  their  aspirations  blend, 

And  my  spirit's  holy  mission 
Thus  hath  found  a  joyful  end." 

Through  our  lives'  mysterious  changes, 

Through  the  sorrow-haunted  years, 
Runs  a  law  of  Compensation 

For  our  sufferings  and  our  tears ; 
And  the  soul  that  reasons  rightly, 

All  its  sad  complaining  stills, 
Till  it  gains  that  calm  condition, 

Where  it  wishes  not,  nor  wills. 


FACE   THE    SUNSHINE.  77 


FACE   THE    SUNSHINE. 

O,  a  morbid  fancy  had  David  Bell, 
That  over  his  path  like  a  wizard  spell, 
A  great,  black  shadow  forever  fell. 
He  turned  his  back  on  the  sun's  clear  ray; 
From  a  singing  bird,  or  a  child  at  play, 
With  a  nervous  shudder  he  shrank  away; 

And  he  shook  his  head, 

As  he  gloomily  said, 
"This  shadow  will  haunt  me  till  I  am  dead!" 

In  the  solemn  shade  of  the  forest  wide, 

Or  in  the  churchyard  at  eventide, 

Like  a  gloomy  ghost  he  was  seen  to  glide. 

There,  nursing  his  fancies  all  alone, 

He  would  sit  him  down  with  a  dismal  moan, 

In  the  dewy  grass  by  some  moss-grown  stone, 

And  shake  his  head, 

As  he  gloomily  said, 
"  This  shadow  will  haunt  me  till  I  am  dead ! " 


78  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

Never  a  nod  or  a  smile  would  greet 

Old  David  Bell,  in  the  field  or  street, 

From  the  sturdy  yeoman  he  chanced  to  meet. 

The  children  fled  from  his  path  away, 

And  the  good  wives  whispered,  "Alack  a  day! 

The  Devil  hath  led  his  soul  astray!" 

For  he  ever  said, 

As  he  shook  his  head, 
"  This  shadow  will  haunt  me  till  I  am  dead  1 " 

One  Sabbath  morn  when  the  air  was  balm, 

And    the    green    earth     smiled    with    a    heavenly 

charm, 

In  the  peaceful  hush,  in  the  holy  calm, 
Old  David  Bell,  with  a  new  intent, 
Across  the  bridge  o'er  the  mill-stream  went, 
And  his  steps  towards  the  village  chapel  bent. 

For  he  said,  "I  will  try 

From  this  fiend  to  fly, 
And  escape  the  shadow  before  I  die ! " 

But  all  along  on  the  sandy  road, 

His  great,  gaunt  shadow  before  him  strode, 

Like  a  fiend  escaped  from  its  dark  abode. 

Sometimes  it  crouched  in  an  angle  small, 

Then  up  it  leapt,  like  a  giant  tall; 

And  as  David  noticed  these  changes  all, 


FACE    THE    SUNSHINE.  79 

» 

He  shook  his  head, 
As  he  gloomily  said, 
"This  shadow  will  haunt  me  till  I  am  dead!" 

At  length,  he  came  to  the  chapel  door, 
But  the  great,  gaunt  shadow  went  in  before, 
Leaping  and  dancing  along  the  floor. 
Old  David  mournfully  turned  away  — 
He  could  not  enter  to  praise  and  pray, 
While  that  impish  shadow  before  him  lay. 

And  he  shook  his  head, 

As  he  gloqmily  said, 
"This  shadow  will  haunt  me  till  I  am  dead!" 

He  wandered  away,  not  heeding  where, 

To  a  lonely  grave,  where  a  willow  fair 

Whispered  sweet  words  to  the  summer  air. 

But  he  saw  not  the  long,  lithe  branches  wave, 

For  only  a  weary  look  he  gave 

At   his    own   black   shadow,    across   the    grave. 

And  he  shook  his  head, 

As  he  gloomily  said, 
"  This  shadow  will  haunt  me  till  I  am  dead ! " 

"  Nay,  nay,  good  David ! "  a  voice  replied. 
He  turned  him  quickly,  and  close  by  his  side 
Stood  old  Goody  Gay,  known  far  and  wide. 


80  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

Though  Time  had  stolen  her  bloom  away, 
And  changed  the  gold  of  her  locks  to  gray, 
Her  face  was  bright  as  the  summer  day. 

"Don't  shake  your  head!" 

She  cheerfully  said, 
"But  face  the  sunshine,  good  man,  instead!" 

With  a  hopeless  look,  and  a  sigh  profound, 
He  sat  himself  down  by  the  grassy  mound, 
Where  the  bright-eyed   daisies  grew  thick   around. 
"  Nay,  leave  me,"  he  said,  in  a  sullen  tone, 
"  For  I  and  the  shadow  would  be  alone ; 
No  balm  of  healing  for  me  is  known. 

It  will  be  as  I  said, 

This  thing  that  I  dread, 
This  shadow,  will  haunt  me  till  I  am  dead." 

The  good  dame  answered,  "O,  David  Bell! 
Why  will  ye  be  ringing  your  own  heart's  knell? 
For  I  tell  ye  this,  that  I  know  full  well  — 
The  blessed  Father,  who  loves  us  all, 
Who  notices  even  a  sparrow's  fall, 
Is  never  deaf  to  His  children's  call ; 

His  love  is  our  light 

In  the  darkest  night: 
Just  turn  to  that  sunshine,  and  all  is  right." 


FACE    THE    SUNSHINE.  81 

"In  this  very  grave  did  I  lay  to  rest, 

With  his  pale  hands  folded  upon  his  breast, 

The  one  of  all  others  I  loved  the  best. 

And  then,  though  my  heart  in  its  anguish  yearned, 

My  face  to  the  sunshine  I  ever  turned, 

And  thus  a  great  lesson  of  life  I  learned ; 

Which  you,  too,  will  find, 

If  you  will  but  mind, 
That  thus,  all  life's  shadows  are  cast  behind." 

He  gazed  in  her  earnest  face  as  she  spoke, 

And  then  a  light  o'er  his  features  broke, 

As  if  new  life  in  his  soul  awoke. 

There    was    something   so  bright    in   that   summer 

day, 

And  the  cheerful  language  of  Goody  Gay, 
That  his  morbid  fancies  were  charmed  away; 

And  he  said,  "I  will  try, 

For  it  may  be,  that  I 
Shall  escape  this  shadow  before  I  die." 

He  turned  him  around  on  the  grassy  knoll, 
And  flush  o'er  his  forehead  and  into  his  soul 
The  warmth  of  the  gladdening  sunshine  stole. 
The  good  dame  lifted  a  willow  bough, 
And  gently  laid  her  hand  on  his  brow  — 
"  Say,  David,  where  is  your  shadow  now  ? 
6 


82  POEMS    OF   PEOGEESS. 

The  shadow  has  fled, 
But  ye  are  not  dead. 

Look    up    to    the    sunshine,  man !     Hold    up    your 
head ! " 

Still  athwart  the  grave  did  the  shadow  lay, 
But  the  face  of  David  was  turned  away, 
And  lifted  up  to  the  sun's  clear  ray. 
Then  the  light  of  truth  on  his  spirit  fell, 
Breaking  forever  the  magic  spell 
That  darkened  the  vision  of  David  Bell. 

His  trial  was  past; 

And  the  shadow,  at  last, 
Behind  him  there,  on  the  grave  was  cast. 

O,  ye !  who  toil  o'er  your  earthly  way, 

With  your  faces  turned  from  the  truth's  clear  ray, 

Consider  the  counsel  of  Goody  Gay. 

Though    shadows    should    haunt   you    as    black   as 
night, 

Be  faithful  and  firm  to  your  highest  light, 

And  face  the  sunshine  with  all  of  your  miyht ! 
Keep  a  cheerful  mind, 
And  at  length  you  will  find 

That  the  grave,  and  life's  shadows,  all  lie  behind. 


HESTER   VAUGHN.  83 


HESTER  VAUGHN. 

[Hester  Vaughn  was  tried  for  the  crime  of  infanticide.  She  was  con 
victed,  and  sentence  of  death  passed  upon  her.  Subsequently,  by  the 
efforts  of  benevolent  individuals,  and  the  pressure  of  public  opinion, 
her  sentence  was  commuted  to  imprisonment  for  life.  Susan  A.  Smith, 
M.  D.,  of  Philadelphia,  who.  visited  her  in  prison,  and  was  chiefly  in 
strumental  in  obtaining  her  reprieve,  gives  the  following  stiitement  in 
relation  to  the  circumstances  attendant  upon  her  alleged  crime :  "  She 
was  deserted  by  her  husband,  who  knew  she  had  not  a  relative  in 
America.  She  rented  a  third-story  room  in  this  city  (Philadelphia), 
from  a  German  family,  who  understood  very  little  English.  She 
furnished  this  room,  found  herself  in  food  and  fuel  for  three  months  on 
twenty  dollars.  She  was  taken  sick  in  this  room  at  midnight,  on  the 
6th  of  February,  and  lingered  until  Saturday  morning,  the  8th,  when  her 
child  was  born.  She  told  me  she  was  nearly  frozen,  and  fainted  or 
went  to  sleep  for  a  long  time.  Through  all  this  period  of  agony  she 
was  alone,  without  nourishment  or  fire,  with  her  door  unfastened.  It 
has  been  asserted  that  she  confessed  her  guilt.  I  can  solemnly  say  in 
the  presence  of  Almighty  God  that  she  never  confessed  guilt  to  me, 
and  stoutly  affirms  that  no  such  word  ever  passed  her  lips."] 

Now  by  the  common  weal  and  woe, 

Uniting  each  with  all; 
And  by  the  snares  we  may  not  know, 

Until  we  blindly  fall  — 
Let  every  heart  by  sorrow  tried, 

Let  every  woman  born, 
Feel  that  her  cause  stands  side  by  side 

With  that  of  Hester  Vaughn. 


84  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

A  woman,  famished  for  the  love 

All  hearts  so  deeply  crave, 
Whose  only  hope  was  Heaven  above, 

To  succor  and  to  save ; 
With  only  want,  and  woe,  and  care, 

To  greet  her  child  unborn ; 
A  weary  burden,  hard  to  bear, 

Was  life  to  Hester  Vaughn. 

No  friend,  no  food,  no  fire,  no  light, 

And  face  to  face  with  death, 
She  struggled  through  the  weary  night, 

With  anguish  in  each  breath  ; 
Till  that  frail  life  which  shared  her  own, 

Had  perished  ere  the  morn, 
And  left  her  to  the  hearts  of  stone, 

That  judged  poor  Hester  Vaughn. 

Who  was  it,  that  refused  to  draw 

A  lesson  from  the  time, 
And  in  the  name  of  human  law, 

Pronounced  her  grief  a  crime? 
Was  her  accuser,  cold  and  stern, 

A  man  of  woman  born, 
Whose  debt  to  woman  could  not  earn 

Some  grace  for  Hester  Vaughn? 


HESTER    VAUGHN.  85 

The  word  of  judgment  is  not  sure, 
To  wealth  and  station  hia^h, 

O      * 

But  that  she  was  alone  and  poor, 

Was  she  condemned  to  die. 
O  God  of  justice !  for  whose  grace 

The  servile  worldlings  fawn, 
Has  not  thy  love  a  hiding-place 

For  such  as  Hester  Vaughn? 

Come  to  the  bar  of  Judgment,  come, 

Ye  favored  ones  of  earth, 
And  let  your  haughty  lips  be  dumb, 

So  boastful  of  your  worth. 
What  virtues,  or  what  noble  deeds, 

Your  faithless  lives  adorn, 
That  thus  by  laws,  or  lifeless  creeds, 

You  sentence  Hester  Vaughn? 

What  countless  crimes,  what  guilt  untold, 

What  depths  of  sin  and  shame, 
Are  gilded  by  your  lying  gold, 

Or  hidden  by  a  name ! 
Ye  pave  your  social  hells  with  skulls 

Of  Infants  yet  unborn ; 
Then  virtuous  wrath  suspicion  lulls, 

And  crushes  Hester  Vaughn. 


86  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

Ye,  who  your  secret  sins  confess, 

Before  the  Eternal  Throne  — 
Adulterer  and  Adulteress  ! 

What  mercy  have  ye  shown  ? 
For  place  and  power,  for  gems  and  gold, 

Ye  give  your  souls  in  pawn, 
But  Heaven's  fair  gates  will  first  unfold 

To  such  as  Hester  Vaughn. « 

The  "mills  of  God  that  grind  so  slow," 

Will  "  grind  exceeding  small ; "  , 
And  time,  at  length,  will  clearly  show 

The  want  or  worth  of  all. 
Distinctions  will  not  always  be 

With  such  precision  drawn, 
Between  the  proud  of  high  degree 

And  such  as  Hester  Vaughn. 

Through  Moyamensing's  prison  bars,* 

She  counts  each  weary  day, 
Or  'neath  the  calmly  watching  stars, 

She  wakes  to  weep  and  pray. 
Thank  God!  for  her  in  heaven  above, 

A  brighter  day  will  dawn, 
And  those  who  judge  all  hearts  in  love, 

Will  welcome  Hester  Vaughn. 

O 

*  Since  the  above  poem  was  given,  through  the  pressure  of  public 
opinion,  she  has  been  pardoned,  and  sent  back  to  England. 


SONG    OF    THE    SPIBIT    CHILDREN.  87 


SONG  OF  THE   SPIRIT   CHILDREN. 

LET  us  sing  the  praise  of  Love  — 
Holy  Spirit!     Heavenly  Dove! 
Bringing  on  its  blessed  wings 
Life  to  all  created  things. 
Wheresoe'er  its  light  is  shed, 
Sorrow  lifts  its  drooping  head, 
And  the  tears  of  grief  that  start 
Turn  to  sunshine  in  the  heart. 
Love  divine, 
All  things  are  thine! 
Every  creature  seeks  thy  shrine. 
And  thy  boundless  blessings  fall 
With  an  equal  love  on  all. 

Let  us  sing  the  praise  of  Love, 
Everywhere  —  around,  above ; 
Watching  with  its  starry  eyes, 
From  the  blue  of  boundless  skies, 
Heeding  when  the  lowly  call, 
Mindful  of  a  sparrow's  fall, 


POEMS    OF   PEOGEESS. 

Writing  on  the  flower-wreathed  sod, 
"  God  is  love,  and  love  is  God." 
Love  divine, 
All  things  are  thine! 
Every  creature  seeks  thy  shrine! 
And  thy  boundless  blessings  fall 
With  an  equal  love  on  all. 

Let  us  sing  the  pi'aise  of  Love  — 

Fairest  of  all  things  above. 

How  its  blessed  sunshine  lies 

In  the  light  of  loving  eyes ! 

And  when  words  are  all  too  weak, 

How  its  deeds  of  mercy  speak! 

They  who  learn  to  love  aright, 

Pass  from  darkness  into  light. 
Love  divine, 
All  things  are  thine! 
Every  creature  seeks  thy  shrine! 
And  thy  boundless  blessings  fall 
With  an  equal  love  on  all. 

Let  us  sing  the  praise  of  Love — 
Shepherd  of  the  lambs  above, 
Nothing  can  forbid,  that  we 
Come  in  trusting  love  to  Thee. 


SONG    OF    THE    SPIEIT    CHILDREN.  89 

Fold  us  closely  to  Thy  heart, 
Make  us  of  Thyself  a  part ; 
All  the  heaven  our  souls  have  known, 
We  have  found  in  Thee  alone. 
Love  divine, 
All  things  are  thine! 
Every  creature  seeks  thy  shrine! 
And  thy  boundless  blessings  fall 
With  an  equal  love  on  all. 


90  POEMS   OF   PKOGKESS. 


HE  GIVETH  HIS   BELOVED   SLEEP. 

NIGHT  drops  her  mantle  from  the  skies, 

And  from  her  home  of  peace  above, 
She  watches  with  her  starry  eyes, 

As  with  a  tender  mother's  love. 
The  sounds  of  toil  and  strife  are  stilled, 

And  in  the  silence  calm  and  deep, 
The  word  of  promise  is  fulfilled  — 

"He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

The  weary  soul  oppressed  with  care, 

The  young,  the  old,  the  strong,  the  weak, 
The  rich,  the  poor,  the  brave,  the  fair, 

Alike  the  common  blessing  seek. 
The  child  sleeps  on  its  mother's  breast, 

The  broken-hearted  cease  to  weep, 
For  answering  to  the  prayer  for  rest, 

"He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 


HE    GIVETH    HIS    BELOVED    SLEEP.  91 

Beneath  the  churchyard's  'sod  there  lies 

Full  many  a  weary  form  at  rest, 
With  death's  calm  slumber  in  the  eyes, 

And  pale  hands  folded  on  the  breast. 
O  ye  who  bend  above  the  sod, 

And  tears  of  silent  anguish  weep, 
Lean  with  a  firmer  faith  on  God  — 

"He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep,"  — 

Sleep  for  the  eye  whose  light  has  fled, 

Sleep  for  the  weary  heart  and  hand; 
But  not  the  sleep  of  those  who  tread 

The  green  hills  of  "  the  better  land." 
No  restless  nights  of  pain  are  theirs, 

No  weary  watch  for  morn  they  keep, 
But  through  release  from  mortal  cares, 

"He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

Theirs  is  that  sweet,  exceeding  peace, 

Where  love  makes  every  duty  blest, 
Where  anxious  cares  and  longings  cease, 

And  labor  in  itself  is  rest. 
O,  we  will  trust  the  power  above 

The  treasures  of  our  hearts  to  keep, 
Safe  folded  in  his  arms  of  love, 

"He  giveth  our  beloved  sleep." 


92  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 


THE  FAMISHED  HEART. 

The  following  poem  was  given  at  the  conclusion  of  a  lecture  upon 
'  Jesus  the  Medium,  and  Socrates  the  Philosopher." 

«' A  new  commandment  I  give  unto  you,  that  ye  love  one  another." 

JOHN  xiii.  34. 

O  YE!  upon  whose  favored  shrine 

Love  hath  a  rich  libation  poured  — 
Who,  even  as  a  thing  divine, 

Are  fondly  worshiped  and  adored  — 
Spare  but  one  kindly  thought  for  those 

Who  stand  in  loneliness  apart, 
Worn  by  that  weariest  of  woes, 

The  hopeless  hunger  of  the  heart. 

As  deadly  as  the  dagger's  thrust, 
Envenomed  as  a  serpent's  fangs, 

It  eats  like  slow,  corroding  rust, 

And  lengthens  out  in  lingering  pangs. 


THE    FAMISHED    HEART.  93 

Think  not  with  careless  jest  or  smile 
To  pass  this  wasting  sorrow  by; 

For  countless  hearts  attest  the  while, 
That  thus,  alas!  too  many  die. 

I  once  was  of  the  earth  like  you ; 

I  loved,  and  hoped,  and  feared  as  well, 
But  on  my  heart  the  kindly  dew 

Of  fond  affection  never  fell. 
An  orphan  in  my  early  years, 

Mine  was  a  hard  and  cheerless  lot, 
For  I  was  doomed,  with  prayers  and  tears, 

To  seek  for  love  and  find  it  not. 

A  bird  upon  a  stormy  sea, 

A  lamb  without  a  sheltering  fold, 
A  vine  with  no  supporting  tree, 

A  blossom  blighted  by  the  cold, — 
The  warmth  of  kindly  atmospheres 

Gave  to  my  life  no  quickened  start; 
Love's  sunshine  melted  not  to  tears 

The  drifted  sorrows  of  my  heart. 

Fresh  from  the  innocence  of  youth, 
I  entered  on  the  rude  world's  strife, 

But  evermore  this  venomed  tooth 
Was  gnawing  at  the  root  of  life. 


94  POEMS    OF   PROGKESS. 

O,  I  was  but  a  thing  of  dust! 

And  what  should  save  me  from  my  fall? 
The  tempter  whispered,  "Lawless  lust 

Is  better  than  no  love  at  all!" 

Then  with  a  flinty  face  I  turned, 

Defiant  of  the  social  ban, 
For  my  poor,  famished  nature  yearned 

For  e'en  such  sympathy  from  man. 
But  no!     I  heard,  as  from  above, 

This  truth  that  many  learn  too  late, 
That  man's  unhallowed,  selfish  love, 

Is  far  more  cruel  than  his  hate. 

I  shrank  from  Passion's  burning  breath, 

Those  sensuous  lips  and  eyes  of  flame, 
And  from  that  furnace  fire  of  death 

My  outraged  heart  unblemished  came. 
But  darker,  deeper  grew  the  night 

That  closed  around  my  suffering  soul, 
And  Fate's  black  billows,  flecked  with  white, 

O'er  all  my  being  seemed  to  roll. 

At  length,  within  a  maniac's  cell, 
I  moaned  and  muttered  day  by  day, 

Till,  like  a  loathsome  thing,  I  fell 
From  human  consciousness  away. 


THE    FAMISHED    HEART.  95 

That  nightmare  dream  of  life  was  brief, 
For  horror  choked  my  struggling  breath, 

And  my  poor  heart,  with  love  and  griefj 
"Was  famished  even  unto  death. 

Unconscious  of  my  spirit's  change, 

Long  did  I  linger  near  the  earth, 
Until  a  being,  kind,  though  strange, 

Recalled  me  to  my  conscious  worth. 
From  thence  I  seemed  to  be  transformed, 

Renewed  as  by  redeeming  grace, 
And  then  my  soul  the  purpose  formed  — 

To  seek  "  the  Saviour  of  the  race." 

My  aspirations  served  to  bear 

My  earnest  spirit  swift  away, 
Until  a  heaven,  serene  and  fair, 

My  onward  progress  seemed  to  stay. 
I  came  where  two  immortals  trod, 

In  friendly  converse,  side  by  side; 
"  O,  lead  me  to  the  Son  of  God, 

That  I  may  worship  him!"  I  cried. 

One  turned  —  and  from  his  aspect  mild 

A  benison  of  love  was  shed  — 
"O,  say,  whom  do  you  seek,  dear  child? 

We  all  are  sons  of  God,"  he  said. 


96  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

"Nay,  nay!"  I  cried,  "not  such  I  mean! 

But  him  who  died  on  Calvary — 
The  humble-hearted  Nazarene!" 

He  meekly  answered,  "  I  am  he  !  " 

"O,  then,  as  sinful  Mary  knelt, 

In  tearful  sorrow,  at  thy  feet, 
So  does  my  icy  nature  melt, 

And  her  sweet  reverence  I  repeat. 
O  God!  O  Christ!    O  Living  All! 

'Thou  art  the  Life,  the  Truth,  the  Way'; 
Lo!  at  thy  feet  I  humbly  fall  — 

Cast  not  my  sinful  soul  away ! " 

"Poor  bleeding  heart!  poor  wounded  dove!" 

In  tones  of  gentleness,  he  said  : 
"How  hast  thou  famished  for  that  love 

Which  is  indeed  'the  living  bread.' 
Kneel  not  to  me;  the  Power  Divine, 

Than  I,  is  greater,  mightier  far; 
His  glories  lesser  lights  outshine, 

As  noonday  hides  the  brightest  star." 

"You  died  for  all  the  world!"  I  cried, 
"And  therefore  do  I  bend  the  knee." 

"My  friend,"*  he  answered,  "at  my  side, 
Long  ere  I  suffered,  died  for  me. 

*  Socrates. 


THE   FAMISHED    HEART.  97 

He  drained  for  man  the  poisoned  cup, 

I  gave  my  body  to  the  cross, 
But  when  the  sum  is  counted  up, 

Great  is  our  gain,  and  small  our  loss. 

"Not  thus  would  I  be  deified, 

Or  claim  the  homage  that  men  pay; 
But  he  who  takes  me  for  his  guide, 

Makes  me  his  Life,  his  Truth,  his  Way. 
O,  heaven  shall  not  descend  to  man, 

Nor  man  ascend  to  heaven  above, 
Till  he  shall  see  Salvation's  plan 

Is  written  in  the  law  of  love. 

"Dear  sister!  let  your  fears  depart  — 

I  have  no  power  to  bid  you  live, 
But  I  can  feed  your  famished  heart 

Upon  the  love  I  freely  give. 
Mine  are  the  hearts  that  men  condemn, 

Or  crush  in  their  ambitious  strife, 
And  through  my  love  I  am  to  them 

'The  Resurrection  and  the  Life.'" 

He  raised  me  gently  from  his  feet, 
And  laid  my  head  upon  his  breast. 

O  God!  how  calm,  how  pure  and  sweet, 
How  more  than  peaceful  was  that  rest! 
7 


POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

I  feel  that  blesse'd  presence  yet  — 
It  fills  me  with  a  joy  serene  — 

Nor  have  I  hungered  since  I  met 
The  gentle-hearted  Nazarene. 


THE    TRIUMPH   OP   LIFE.  99 


THE   TRIUMPH   OF  LIFE. 

The  following  poem,  given  under  the  inspiration  of  Mrs.  Hemans, 
is  a  reversion  of  the  ideas  contained  in  a  poem  composed  by  her  in 
earth  life,  entitled  "  The  Hour  of  Death." 

"  Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 

And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind's  breath, 
And  stars  to  set  —  but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death ! " 

LEAVES  have  their  glad  recall, 

And  blossoms  open  to  the  South  wind's  breath, 
And  stars  that  set  shall  rise  again,  for  all, 

All  things  shall  triumph  o'er  the  Spoiler  —  Death. 

Day  was  not  made  for  care  — 

Eve  brings  bright  angels  to  the  joyous  hearth  — 
'Night  comes  with  dreams  of  peace,  and  visions 

fair 

Of  those    whom    Death    could    conquer    not    on 
earth. 


100  POEMS   OF   PROGRESS. 

When,  in  the  festive  hour, 

Death  mingles  poison  with  the  ruby  wine, 
Life  also  comes  with  overwhelming  power, 

Changing  the  deadly  draught  to  life  divine. 

Youth  and  the  opening  rose 

May  vanish  from  the  outward  sight  away, 
But  Life  their  inward  beauty  shall  disclose. 

And  rob  the  haughty  Spoiler  of  his  prey. 

Leaves  have  their  glad  recall, 

And  blossoms  open  to  the  South  wind's  breath, 
And  stars  that  set  shall  rise  again,  for  all, 

All  things  shall  triumph  o'er  the  Spoiler  —  Death. 

We  know  that  yet  again 

Our    loved    and    lost    shall   cross    the    Summer 

sea, 

Bearing  with  them  the  sheaves  of  golden  grain, 
Which     they    have     harvested,    O     Life  !    with 
thee. 

Thy  breath  is  in  the  gale 

Whose  kiss  unseals  the  violet's  azure  eye ; 
And  though  the  roses  in  our  path  grow  pale, 

We  know   that   all  things   change,  they  do    not 
die. 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF   LIFE.  101 

Wherever  man  may  roam, 

Thy  presence,  viewless  as  the  Summer  air, 
Meets  him  abroad,  or  in  his  peaceful  home, 

And  when   Death  calls   him  forth,  thou,  too,  art 
there. 

Thou  art  where  soul  meets  soul, 

Or  where  earth's  noblest  fall  in  battle  strife ; 
But  Death,  the  Spoiler,  yields  to  thy  control ; 

Forevermore  thou  art  the  conqueror,  Life. 

Leaves  have  their  glad  recall, 

And  blossoms  open  to  the  South  wind's  breath, 
And  stars  that  set  shall  rise  again,  for  all, 

All  things  shall  triumph  o'er  the  Spoiler  —  Death. 


102  POEMS   OF  PEOGBESS. 


REFORMERS. 

WHERE  have  the  world's  great  heroes  gone, 

The  champions  of  the  Right, 
Who,  with  their  armor  girded  on, 

Have  passed  beyond  our  sight? 
Are  they  where  palms  immortal  wave, 

And  laurels  crown  the  brow? 
Or  was  the  victory  thine,.  O  Grave? 

Where  are  they?    Answer  thou. 

We  shudder  at  the  silence  dread, 

That  renders  no -reply  — 
O,  dust!  from  whence  the  soul  hath  fled, 

Thou  caust  not  hear  our  cry. 
The  violet,  o'er  their  mouldering  clay, 

Looks  meekly  from  the  sod, 
But  tells  not  of  the  hidden  way 

Their  angel  feet  have  trod. 

Where  are  they,  Death?   thou  mighty  one! 

To  some  far  land  unknown, 
Beyond  the  stars,  beyond  the  sun, 

Have  their  bright  spirits  flown? 


REFORMEBS.  103 

Their  hearts  were  strong  through  Truth  and  Right, 

Life's  stormy  tide  to  stem. 
O  Death !  thou  conqueror  of  might ! 

What  need  hadst  thou  of  them  ? 

The  earth  is  green  with  martyrs'  graves, 

On  hill,  and  plain,  and  shore, 
And  the  great  ocean's  sounding  waves 

Sweep  over  thousands  more. 
For  us  they  drained  life's  bitter  cup, 

And  dared  the  battle  strife ; 
Where  are  they,  Death?     O,  render  up 

The  secret  of  their  life ! 

We  listen  —  to  our  earnest  cries 

No  answer  is  made  known, 
Save  the  "Resurgam"  —  I  shall  rise! 

Carved  on  the  burial  stone. 
O  Grave!  O  Death!  thou  canst  not  keep 

The  spark  of  Life  Divine ; 
They  have  no  need  of  rest  or  sleep ; 

Nay,  Death,  they  are  not  thine! 

Where  are  they?     O  Creative  Soul! 

To  whom  no  name  is  given, 
Whose  presence  fills  the  boundless  whole, 

Whose  love  alone  is  heaven, 


104  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

Through  all  the  long,  eternal  hours 

What  toils  do  they  pursue  ? 
Are  their  great  souls  still  linked  with  ours, 

To  suffer  and  to  do  ? 

Lo !  how  the  viewless  air  around 

With  quickening  life  is  stirred, 
And  from  the  silences  profound 

Leaps  forth  the  answering  word, 
"  We  live  —  not  in  some  distant  sphere 

Life's  mission  to  fulfill ; 
But,  joined  with  faithful  spirits  here, 

We  love  and  labor  still. 

No  laurel  wreath,  no  waving  palm, 

No  royal  robes  are  ours, 
But  evermore,  serene  and  calm, 

We  use  life's  noblest  powers. 
Toil  on  in  hope,  and  bravely  bear 

The  burdens  of  your  lot ; 
Great,  earnest  souls  your  labors  share; 

They  will  forsake  you  not." 


MK.   DE    SPLAE.  105 


MR.  DE   SPLAE. 

IT  may  seem  a  strange  question,  good  people,  but 

say, 

Did  you  never  hear  tell  of  one  Mr.  De  Splae? 
A  man  who  made  up  for  the  lack  of  good  sense 
By   a   wondrous    amount  of  mere   show   and   pre 
tense  ; 

Puffed  up  with  conceit  like  an  airy  balloon, 
He    was    hard   to    approach    as   the   "man   in   the 

moon," 

Save  when  for  some  purpose  it  came  in  his  way, 
And  then,  O  how  gracious  was  Mr.  De  Splae! 

A  sly  politician,  a  popular  man, 

When  all  things  went  smoothly  he  marshaled  the 

van ; 

But  when  there  was  aught  like  a  failure  to  fear, 
He  quickly  deserted  or  fell  to  the  rear. 
His  speech  for  the  people  went  "gayly  and  glib," 
While  he  drew  his  support  from  the  National  crib ; 


106  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

But  when  an  assessment  or  tax  was  to  pay, 
O,  how  outraged  and  angry  was  Mr.  De  Splae ! 

He  smoked,  and  he  chewed,  and  he  drank,  and  he 

swore ;  • 

But  then  every  man  whom  the  ladies  adore, 
Is   prone  to  these   failings  —  some   more  and  some 

less, 

Which  are  all  overlooked  in  a  man  of  address. 
It  also  was  whispered  that  he  had  betrayed 
The  too  trusting  faith  of  an  innocent  maid ; 
But  the  ladies  all  blamed  her  for  going  astray, 
While    they    pardoned    and    petted  —  "  dear    Mr. 

De  Splae." 

There  was   good   Mr.  Honest,  who  lived   but   next 

door, 
He   was   true,  and   substantial,   and   sound   to   the 

core; 
He    had    made   it   the    rule    of  his    life,  from   his 

youth, 

To  shun  all  evasions  and  speak  the  plain  truth ; 
But  the  ladies  —  who  always  are  judges,  you  know, 
Declared  him  to  be  a  detestable  beau  — . 
Not  worthy  of  mention  within  the  same  day, 
With    that  pink    of  perfection  —  "  dear    Mr.   De 

Splae." 


ME.   DE    SPLAE.  107 

"Withal  he  was  pious  —  perhaps  you  will  smile, 
_  And  ask  how  he  happened  the  church  to  beguile ; 
Why,    the    churches    accept    men    for    better    or 

worse, 

If  there's  only  a  plenty  of  cash  in  the  purse. 
Gold  still  buys  remission  as  freely  and  fast, 
As  it  did  in  the  Catholic  Church  in  the  past. 
'Tis  the  same   thing  right  over,  and   that  was  the 

way, 
That  the  church   swallowed   smoothly  "good  Mr. 

De  Splae." 

O,  you  ought  to  have  heard  him  when   leading  in 

prayer ! 

How  he  flattered  the  Father  of  All  for  his  care, 
And    confessed   he    was    sinful    a   thousand    times 

o'er, 

Which  'twas   morally   certain  the   Lord  knew  be 
fore. 

The  ladies  responded  in  sweet  little  sighs, 
With  their  elegant  handkerchiefs   pressed  to  their 

eyes, 

But  the  pure,  unseen  spirits  turned  sadly  away 
From  the  loud-mouthed  devotions  of  Mr.  De  Splae. 

O,  short-sighted  mortal !     Poor  Mr.  De  Splae ! 
His  mask  of  deception  was  molded  in  clay, 


108  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

And  when  his  external  in  death  was  let  fall, 
What  he  was,  without   seeming,  was   known  unto. 

all. 

His  garment  of  patches  —  his  flimsy  disguise  — 
Which   had   won    him   distinction   in   other   men's 

eyes, 
Was    "  changed    in    a    twinkling "  —  ay,    vanished 

away, 
Leaving  nothing  to  boast  of  to  Mr.  De  Splae. 

Ah,  a  great  reputation,  a  title,  or  name, 

Oft  brings  its  possessor  to  sorrow  and  shame; 

But  a  character,  founded  in  goodness  and  worth, 

Outlasts  all  the  perishing  glories  of  earth. 

O'er  the  frailties  of  nature,  and  changes  of  time, 

It  rises  majestic,  in  beauty  sublime, 

Till  the  weak  and  faint-hearted  are  cheered  by  its 

ray, 
Far  above  all  mere  seeming  and  empty  display. 


WILL   IT    PAY?  109 


WILL  IT   PAY? 

MEN  may  say  what  they  will 

Of  the  Author  of  111, 
And  the  wiles  of  the  Devil  that  tempt  them  astray, 

But  there's  something  far  worse  — 

A  more  terrible  curse  — 
It  is  selling  the  Truth  for  the  sake  of  the  pay. 

Like  Judas  of  old, 

For  silver  or  gold, 
Man  often  has  bartered  his  conscience  away, 

Has  walked  in  disguise, 

And  has  trafficked  in  lies, 

If  the  prospect  was  good   that  the  business  would 
pay. 

If  a  fortune  is  made 

By  cheating  in  trade, 
It  is  seldom,  if  ever,  men  question  the  way; 

But  they  make  it  a  rule 

That  a  man  is  a  fool 
Who  strives  to  make  justice  and  honesty  pay. 


110  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

An  instance  more  clear 

Could  never  appear, 
Than  was  seen  in  the  life  of  old  Nicholas  Gray, 

Who  ne'er  made  a  move, 

In  religion  or  love, 
Unless  he  was  sure  that  the  venture  would  pay. 

He  built  him  a  house 

That  would  scarce  hold  a  mouse, 
Where  he  managed  to  live  in  a  miserly  way, 

Till  he  said,  "On  my  life, 

I  will  take  me  a  wife ; 
It  is  running  a  risk  —  but  I  think  it  will  pay." 

Then  he  opened  a  store, 

Whose  fair,  tempting  door, 
Led  sure  and  direct  to  destruction's  broad  way. 

For  liquor  he  sold, 

To  the  young  and  the  old, 

To  the  poor  and  the  wretched,  and  all  who  could 
pay. 

A  woman  once  came, 

And  in  God's  holy  name, 
She  prayed  him  his  terrible  traffic  to  stay, 

That  her  husband  might  not 

Be  a  poor  drunken  sot, 
And  spend  all  his  wages  for  what  would  not  pay. 


WILL   IT   PAY?  Ill 

Old  Nicholas  laughed, 

As  his  whisky  he  quaffed, 
And  he  said,  "  If  your  husband  comes  hither  to-day, 

I  will  sell  him  his  dram, 

And  I  don't  care  a  —  clam 
How  you  are  supported  if  I  get  my  pay." 

So  he  prospered  in  sin, 

And  continued  to  win 
The  wages  of  death  in  this  terrible  way, 

Till  a  Constable's  raid 

Put  an  end  to  his  trade, 
And  closed  up  his  business  as  well  as  the  pay. 

To  church  he  then  went, 

"With  a  pious  intent 
Of  "  getting  religion  "  —  as  some  people  say  — 

For  he  said,  "It  comes  cheap, 

And  costs  nothing  to  keep, 
And  from  close  observation  I  think  it  will  pay." 

But  the  tax  and  the  tithe 

Made  old  Nicholas  writhe, 

And  he  thought  that  "the  plate"  came   too  often 
his  way; 

So  he  soon  fell  from  grace, 

And  made  vacant  his  place, 
For  he  said,  "I  perceive  that  religion  don't  pay." 


112  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

Still  striving  to  thrive, 

And  thriving  to  strive, 
His  attention  was  turned  a  political  way; 

But  he  could  not  decide 

Which  party  or  side 
Would  be  the  most  likely  to  prosper  or  pay. 

He  was  puzzled,  and  hence 

He  sat  on  the  fence, 
Prepared  in  an  instant  to  jump  either  way; 

But  it  fell  to  his  fate 

To  jump  just  too  late, 

And  he  said  in  disgust,  "This  of  all  things  don't 
pay." 

Year  passed  after  year, 

And  there  did  not  appear 
A  spark  of  improvement  in  Nicholas  Gray, 

For  his  morals  grew  worse 

With  the  weight  of  his  purse, 
As  he  managed  to  make  his  rascality  pay. 

At  length  he  fell  ill; 

So  he  drew  up  his  will, 
Just  in  time  to  depart  from  his  mansion  of  clay,* 

And  he  said  to  old  Death, 

With  his  last  gasp  of  breath, 
"  Don't  hunt  for  my  soul,  for  I  know  it  won't  pay." 


WILL   IT   PAY?  113 

O,  'tis  sad  to  rehearse, 

In  prose  or  in  verse, 
The  faults  and  the  follies  that  lead  men  astray. 

For  gold  is  but  dross, 

And  a  terrible  loss, 
When  conscience  and  manhood  are  given  in  pay. 

Then  be  not  deceived, 

Though  men  have  believed 
That  'tis  lawful  to  sin  in  a  general  way, 

But  stick  to  the  right 

With  all  of  your  might, 
For  Truth  is  eternal,  and  always  will  pay. 
8 


POEMS   OF   PEOGKES8. 


THE  LIVING  WORD. 

"  In  the  beginning  was  the  Word,  and  the  Word  was  with  God, 
and  the  Word  was  God." 
"  And  the  Word  was  made  flesh  and  dwelt  in  men." 

ETERNAL,  Self-existent  Soul! 

From  whom  Life's  issues  take  their  start, 
Thou  art  the  undivided  Whole, 

Of  whom  each  creature  forms  a  part. 
Thy  boundless  being's  distant  reach, 

Our  finite  vision  may  not  see, 
But  this  we  know,  that  each  with  each, 

We  live  and  move  alone  in  Thee. 

"In  the  beginning  was  the  Word"  — 

The  Word,  as  present  now,  as  then, 
Which,  in  the  heart  of  Nature,  stirred 

"  The  Life  which  was  the  light  of  men." 
Through  Chaos  and  Confusion's  night 

Streamed  forth  the  light  of  Love  divine, 
And  lit  along  Creation's  hight, 

Unnumbered  fires  in  glittering  line. 


THE    LIVING   WORD.  115 

Earth's  fiery  heart,  with  battle  shocks, 

Beat  fiercely  in  her  granite  breast, 
Leaving  on  scarred  and  blackened  rocks 

The  record  of  her  wild  unrest. 
Rich  ores  in  molten  currents  swept  — 

Like  fire  within  her  veins  they  ran  — 
While  in  the  womb  of  Nature  slept 

The  embryo  prophecy  of  man. 

Down  deep,  the  elements,  like  gnomes, 

Beside  their  flaming  forges  wrought, 
To  fashion  shapes,  and  future  homes 

For  the  embodiment  of  Thought. 
The  wild  winds  roared  —  the  raging  floods 

Tossed  their  defiant  waves  on  high, 
While  from  the  old,  primeval  woods, 

The  chorus  thundered  to  the  sky. 

The  broadcast,  wondrous  Encrinites 

Opened  their  breathing  lily  bells, 
While  Ammonites  and  Trilobites 

Paved  pathless  spaces  with  their  shells. 
The  coral  Polyp,  'neath  the  wave, 

Wrought  in  the  great  progressive  plan, 
By  which  the  lesser  creature's  grave 

Built  up  the  future  home  of  man. 


116  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

The  slumbering  Iguanodon* 

Lay  reeking  in  mephitic  damp  — 
The  Mylodon  and  Mastodon 

Startled  the  forests  with  their  tramp. 
Gigantic  ferns,  like  feathery  palms, 

Nodded  in  silence  to  the  trees, 
Whose  royal  crests  and  stalwart  arms 

Tossed  like  the  waves  of  stormy  seas. 

Thus  on,  still  on  the  current  rolled  — 

The  light  of  countless  mornings  shone; 
And  radiant  sunsets  robed  in  gold, 

Swept  down  the  gulfs  of  years  unknown. 
At  length,  with  beasts,  and  birds,  and  flowers, 

Creation  seemed  a  perfect  whole; 
Then  God  and  Nature  joined  their  powers, 

And  man  became  a  living  soul. 

O  Mother  Nature!     Father  God! 

How  wondrous  is  the  work  we  trace! 
Man  fashioned  from  the  senseless  clod, 

Yet  filled  with  life's  divinest  grace. 
Nor  is  that  form  of  earthly  mold 

The  limit  of  his  life  to  be ; 
Forth  from  the  mortal  will  unfold 

The  germ  of  immortality. 

*  Pronounced  Ig-war-no-don. 


THE    LIVING    WORD.  117 

For  even  as  through  countless  throes, 

And  travail  pains,  the  mighty  plan 
Of  God  in  Nature  slowly  rose, 

To  consummate  its  aims  in  man, 
Thus  onward  still  the  current  rolls, 

The  spirit  with  the  flesh  at  strife,  , 
Until,  at  length,  all  living  souls 

Are  quickened  from  the  inmost  life. 

Across  the  broad,  unfathomed  sea, 

That  breaks  upon  the  shores  of  time, 
The  promise  of  the  yet  to  be 

Comes  like  a  prophecy  sublime. 
The  purple  gloom,  that  like  a  veil 

Rests  on  that  ever  swelling  tide, 
Full  oft  reveals  a  friendly  sail, 

With  tidings  from  the  further  side. 

O  soul  of  man !  to  conscious  power 

From  elements  of  death  outwrought, 
The  Living  Word  forecast  thine  hour, 

And  found  the  dwelling-place  it  sought. 
High  in  the  heavens  forevermore, 

The  stars  of  truth  eternal  shine ; 
Sail  on,  O  man,  from  shore  to  shore; 

The  power  that  guides  thee  is  divine. 


118  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

In  the  beginning  was  the  Word  — 

The  Word  as  present  now  as  then  — 
And  by  its  quickening  power  is  stirred 

New  life  within  the  souls  of  men. 
Thus  on,  still  on,  the  current  rolls, 

Through  daisies  blooming  on  the  sod, 
Through  creeping  things,  though  living  souls, 

Through  "quickened  spirits"  up  to  God. 


HYMN    TO    THE    SUN.   .  119 


HYMN  TO  THE   SUN. 

O  FOUNTAIN  of  beauty,  of  gladness  and  light, 
Whose  pathway  is  set  in  the  infinite  hight, 
Whose  light  hath  no  shadow,  whose  day  hath  no 
night ! 

We  know  not  thy  birthplace,  O  wonderful  one! 
We  count  not  the  ages  through  which  thou  hast 

run, 
But  we  render  thee  praises,  O  life-giving  Sun. 

All  day  the  glad  Earth  in  thy  loving  embrace, 
Arrayed  by  thy  bounty  in  garments  of  grace, 
Lifts  up  to  thy  glances  her  beautiful  face. 

And  at  night,  when  her  children  need  silence  and 

rest, 
With    the     light    of    her    starry-eyed     sisterhood 

blest, 
She  sleeps  like  a  bride  on  thy  cherishing  breast. 


120  POEMS    Or    PROGRESS. 

When  the  skylark  springs  up  at  the  coming  of 
morn, 

When  the  golden  fringed  curtains  of  night  are  with 
drawn, 

Then  blushing  with  beauty  the  day  is  new  born. 

And  the  pulses  of  Nature  in  harmony  bound, 

To  the   waves   of  thy  glory  which  move   without 

sound, 
And  sweep  unimpeded  through  spaces  profound. 

Ay,   the   life-tide    that    leaps    in   the    bird    or    the 

flower  — 
The  rainbow  that  gleams  through  the  drops  of  the 

shower  — 
O  wonderful  artist !  are  born  of  thy  power. 

And   the  rush  of  the   whirlwind,   the   roar   of  the 

deep, 

The  cataract's  thunder,  the  avalanche-sweep, 
Are  thy  forces  majestic,  aroused  from  their  sleep. 

Shall  we  wonder,  that  filled  with  devotion  untold, 
The  awe-stricken  Parsee  adored  thee  of  old, 
Nor    dreamed    that    One    greater    thy    glory   con 
trolled  ? 


HYMN    TO    THE    SUN.  121 

And  He,  the  Eternal,  the  Ancient  of  Days  — 
Whose  splendors  are  veiled  by  inscrutable  ways  — 
Did    he    frown    on    such    blindness,   or    envy    thee 
praise  ? 

O  Sun !  in  the  light  of  whose  presence  we  see, 
We   ask,  —  canst   thou   tell   us?  —  what  caused  us 

to  be? 
And  how  are  we  linked  to  creation  and  thee? 

We    must    perish  —  but    thou,    by    thy    wonderful 

powers, 

Wilt  rescue  from  darkness  these  bodies  of  ours, 
And  fashion  them  over  to  verdure  and  flowers. 

But  the  jewel  of  beauty  in  life's  golden  bowl  — 
O,  answer  us  —  say  —  dost  thou  also  control 
That  Infinite  Essence,  the  life  of  the  soul? 

There  is  doubt,  there  is  darkness  and  fear  in  our  cry : 
Dost   thou   drink  up   the  pearl  of  our  lives  when 

we  die? 
We  listen  —  but  silence  alone  makes  reply. 

It  is  well  —  for  our  spirits  may  know  by  the  sign, 
That   a   might   hath  evoked  thee  far  greater  than 

thine, 
And  we  must  seek  Truth  at  life's  innermost  shrine. 


122  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

That  Centre  of  Being,  transcending  all  thought, 
Whose  might  hath  perfection  of  beauty  outwrought, 
Returns    the    great    answer    of   peace    which    we 
sought. 

And  we  kiiow,  when  the  race  of  the  planets  is  run, 
And  the  day  shall  no  longer  behold  thee,  O  Sun! 
Our  souls  shall  find  light  with  that  Infinite  One. 

O  Source  of  all  Being!  whose  name  everywhere 
Is  sung  in  hosannas,  or  murmured  in  prayer, 
We  trust,  unreserving,  our  souls  to  thy  care. 


GKEATHEART    A2TD    GIANT    DESPAIR.  123 


GREATHEART  AND  GIANT  DESPAIR. 

"  Then  said  Mr.  Greatheart,  '  I  have  a  commandment  to  resist  sin, 
to  overcome  evil,  to  fight  the  good  fight  of  faith;  and  I  pray,  with 
whom  should  I  fight  this  good  fight,  if  not  with  Giant  Despair  ? ' 

"  Now  Giant  Despair,  because  he  was  a  giant,  thought  no  man 
could  overcome  him ;  and  again  thought  he,  '  Since  heretofore  I  have 
made  a  conquest  of  angels,  shall  Greatheart  make  me  afraid  ? '  So 
he  harnessed  himself  and  went  out.  Then  they  fought  for  their 
lives,  and  Giant  Despair  was  brought  to  the  ground,  but  was  loth  to 
die.  He  struggled  hard,  and  had,  as  they  say,  as  many  lives  as  a 
cat;  but  Greatheart  was  his  death,  for  he  left  him  not  till  he  had 
severed  his  head  from  his  shoulders." 

BUNYAN'S  PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS. 

HAVE  you  heard  of  that  marvelous  story, 

That  wonderful  romance  of  old, 
The  story  of  Christian,  the  pilgrim, 

So  quaintly  and  earnestly  told  ? 
'Tis  a  curious  dream,  with  a  beautiful  gleam 

Of  light  through  its  mystery  thrown ; 
'Tis  a  picture  of  life,  where  the  Soul  in  its  strife 

With  the  demons  of  darkness  is  shown. 
Nor  yet  have  the  indolent  ages 

Its  mystical  meaning  outgrown. 


121  POEMS    OP   PROGRESS. 

Dark  threads  from  the  loom  of  old  Error 

Are  shot  through  its  fabric  of  light, 
Yet  its  blendings  of  Beauty  and  Terror 

Are  wrought  with  a  masterly  might. 
The  gleam  and  the  glare  of  Destruction  are  there, 

With  demons  the  soul  to  appall; 
And    the   pitfalls  of  Death,  with  their   sulphurous 
breath, 

"Where  the  weak  and  unwary  must  fall. 
But,  ah!  shall  we  call  these  mere  fancies? 

Life  yet  hath  a  meaning  for  all. 

And  there  in  that  wonderful  region, 

With  battlements  blackened  and  bare, 
To  the  sorrow  of  Hopeful  and  Christian, 

Stood  the  Castle  of  Giant  Despair ; 
For  they  ventured  to  stray  in  a  perilous  way, 

Where  the  Giant  was  searching  about, 
Who  seized  on  these  men,  and  into  a  den, 

'Neath  his  gloomy  old  Castle  of  Doubt, 
He  thrust  the  poor  sorrowful  pilgrims, 

'Neath  that  dismal  old  Castle  of  Doubt. 

It  was  said  that  he  came  "with  a  cudgel," 
And  he  beat  them  from  day  to  day, 

Till  they  chanced  on  "The  Key  of  Promise," 
When  they  fled  from  his  wrath  away. 


GREATHEART    AND    GIANT    DESPAIR.  125 

Then  with  friendly  design  they  made  ready  a  sign, 

And  they  placed  it  with  pious  care 
O'er  the  perilous  way  where  they  went  astray, 

That  pilgrims  might  ever  beware 
Of  the  dangers  of  Doubting  Castle, 

And  the  wrath  of  old  Giant  Despair. 

Thereafter  came  Greatheart  the  valiant, 

Unrivaled  in  courage  and  might, 
The  friend  of  the  weak  and  defenseless, 

Who  had  pledged  his  good  sword  to  the  Right. 
There,  boldly  defiant,  he  challenged  the  Giant 

From  his  stronghold  of  Death  to  come  out; 
And  Giant  Despair,  with  an  insolent  air, 

Looked  down  from  the  Castle  of  Doubt, 
And  cried,  "  I  will  slay  thee,  vile  braggart, 

And  put  all  thy  forces  to  rout." 

Then  in  haste  he  came  down  from  his  Castle, 

With  his  terrible  breastplate  of  fire, 
And  straight  upon  Greatheart  the  valiant, 

He  rushed  with  impetuous  ire. 
But  nothing  dismayed,  with  his  keen,  trusty  blade 

Greatheart  smote  the  old  Giant  amain, 
Firm,  fearless,  and  fast,  until  vanquished  at  last, 

He  struggled  and  died  on  the  plain. 
Yet  'tis  said,  that  far  down  in  the  ages, 

He  came  to  existence  again. 


126  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

Do  you  deem  this  an  idle  old  story, 

Dragged  out  from  the  dust  of  the  Past  ? 
Alas!  though  so  time-worn  and  hoary, 

Its  truths  in  the  Present  stand  fast. 
High  up  in  the  air,  all  blackened  and  bare, 

Still  rises  the  Castle  of  Doubt, 
And  the  Giant,  I   trow,  should   you   seek  for  him 
now, 

You  would  find  him  still  prowling  about; 
And  the  souls  who  go  in  to  his  Castle, 

Are  more  than  the  souls  who  come  out. 

With  the  cudgel  of  Old  Tradition, 

Does  he  beat  them  from  day  to  day, 
And  he  carefully  hides  from  their  vision 

The  Light  of  the  Present  away. 
The  angels  above,  with  compassionate  love, 

A  plan  for  their  rescue  devise ; 
But  the  Giant  cries  out  from  his  Castle  of  Doubt, 

"  Beware  of  delusion  and  lies !  " 
So  they  shrink  back  again  to  their  prison, 

And  fear  through  the  Truth  to  grow  wise. 

O,  where  is  our  Greatheart  the  valiant! 

A  terrible  warfare  to  wage 
On  this  old  Theological  Giant, 

The  Doubt  and  Despair  of  this  age  ? 


GEEATHEAKT   AND    GIANT   DESPAIR.  127 

Let   us    rise,  one    and   all,  when    our   leader   shall 

call, 

And  each  for  the  conflict  prepare ; 
We   will   march   round   about  that   old  Castle  of 

Doubt, 

"With  our  "  Banner  of  Light "  on  the  air, 
And  raze  to  its  very  foundations 
The  stronghold  of  Giant  Despair. 


128  POEMS    OF   PKOGKESS. 


"THE    ORACLE." 

LIKE  the  roar  of  distant  cataracts, 

Like  the  slumbrous  roll  of  waves, 
Like  the  night-wind  in  the  willows, 

Sighing  over  lonely  graves, 
Like  oracular  responses, 

Echoing  from  their  secret  caves, 
Comes  a  sound  of  solemn  meaning 

From  the  spirits  gone  before ; 
Comes  a  terrible  "  awake  thou  !  " 

Startling  man  from  sleep  once  m%re, 
Like  a  wild  wave  beating,  breaking, 

On  this  Life's  tempestuous  shore. 

In  Earth's  desolated  temples 
Have  the  oracles  grown  dumb, 

And  the  priests,  with  lifeless  rituals, 
All  man's  noblest  powers  benumb; 

But  a  solemn  voice  is  speaking  — 
Speaking  of  the  yet  to  come. 


"THE   ORACLE."  129 

There  will  be  a  chosen  priestess, 
Springing  from  the  lap  of  Ease, 

Hastening  to  the  soul's  Doclona, 
Where,  amid  the  sacred  trees, 

She  will  hear  divine  responses, 
Whispered  in  the  passing  breeze. 

She  will  be  a  meek-faced  woman, 

Chastened  by  Affliction's  rod, 
Who  hath  worshiped  at  the  altar 

Of  the  spirit's  "  unknown  God  ; " 
Who  in  want,  and  woe,  and  weakness, 

All  alone  the  wine-press  trod, 
Till  the  salt  sea-foam  of  Sorrow 

Whitened  on  her  quivering  lips, 
Till  her  heart's  full  tide  of  anguish 

Flooded  to  her  finger-tips, 
And  her  soul  sank  down  in  darkness, 

Smitten  by  a  dread  eclipse. 

"Pure  in  heart,"  and  "poor  in  spirit," 

Hers  will  be  that  inner  life, 
Which  Earth's  martyr-souls  inherit, 

Who  are  conquerors  in  the  strife. 
Born  of  God  they  walk  with  Angels, 

Where  the  air  with  love  is  rife. 
9 


130  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

Men  will  call  her  "  Laureola,"  * 

And  her  pale,  meek  bixnv  will  crown; 

But  with  holiest  aspirations, 

She  will  shun  the  world's  renown, 

And  before  the  Truth's  high  altar, 
Cast  Earth's  votive  offerings  down. 

Men  will  sit  like  little  children 

At  her  feet,  high  truths  to  learn, 
And  for  love,  the  pure  and  holy, 

She  will  cause  their  hearts  to  yearn; 
Then  the  innocence  of  Eden 

To  their  spirits  shall  return. 
Very  fearless  in  her  freedom, 

She  will  scorn  to  simply  please; 
But  the  fiercest  lion-spirits 

She  will  lead  with  quiet  ease. 
Calm,  but  earnest,  firm  and  truthful, 

She  will  utter  words  like  these:  — 

"  "Wherefore,  O  ye  sons  of  Sorrow ! 

Do  ye  idly  sit  and  borrow 

Care  and  trouble  for  the  morrow  — 

Filling  up  your  cup  with  woe? 
Leave,  O,  leave  your  visions  dreary! 
Hush  your  doleful  miserere! 

See  the  lilies  how  they  grow  — 

*  The  name  signifies  a  small  laurel  wreath. 


"THE  ORACLE."  131 

"Bending  down  their  heads  so  lowly, 
As  though  heaven  were  far  too  holy, 
Growing  patiently  and  slowly 

To  the  end  that  God  designed. 
In  their  fragrance  and  their  beauty, 
Filling  up  their  sphere  of  duty  — 

Each  is  perfect  in  its  kind. 

"  Deeper  than  all  sense  of  seeing 
Lies  the  secret  source  of  being, 
And  the  soul  with  Truth  agreeing, 

Learns  to  live  in  thoughts  and  deeds. 
'For  the  life  is  more  than  raiment,' 
And  the  Earth  is  pledged  for  payment 

Unto  man,  for  all  his  needs. 

"Nature  is  your  common  mother, 
Every  living  man  your  brother; 
Therefore  love  and  serve  each  other; 

Not  to  meet  the  law's  behest, 
But  because  through  cheerful  giving, 
You  will  learn  the  art  of  living, 

And  to  love  and  serve  is  best. 

"Life  is  more  than  what  man  fancies  — 
Not  a  game  of  idle  chances, 
But  it  steadily  advances 


132  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

•Up  the  rugged  steeps  of  Time, 
Till  man's  complex  web  of  trouble  — 
Every  sad  hope's  broken  bubble, 

Hath  a  meaning  most  sublime. 

"More  of  practice,  less  profession, 
More  of  firmness,  less  concession, 
More  of  freedom,  less  oppression 

In  your  Church  and  in  your  State; 
More  of  life,  and  less  of  fashion, 
More  of  love,  and  less  of  passion  — 

That  will  make  you  good  and  great. 

"  When  true  hearts,  divinely  gifted, 
From  the  chaff  of  Error  sifted, 
On  their  crosses  are  uplifted, 

Shall  your  souls  most  clearly  see 
That  earth's  greatest  time  of  trial 
Calls  for  holy  self-denial  — 

Calls  on  men  to  do  and  be. 

"But,  forever  and  forever, 
Let  it  be  your  soul's  endeavor, 
Love  from  hatred  to  dissever; 

And  in  whatsoe'er  ye  do  — 
Won  by  Truth's  eternal  beauty  — 
To  your  highest  sense  of  duty 

Evermore  be  firm  and  true. 


"  THE    ORACLE."  133 

"  Heavenly  messengers  descending, 
With  a  patience  never  ending, 
Evermore  their  strength  are  lending, 

And  will  aid  you  lest  you  fall. 
Truth  is  an  eternal  mountain  — 
Love,  a  never-failing  fountain, 

Which  will  cleanse  and  save  you  all." 

List  to  her,  ye  worn  and  weary  — 

Hush  your  heart-throbs,  hold  the  breath, 
Lest  ye  lose  one  word  of  wisdom, 

Which  the  answering  spirit  saith ; 
Hear  her,  O  ye  blood-stained  nations, 

In  your  holocaust  of  death ! 
Lo!  your  oracles  have  failed  you, 

In  the  dust  your  idols  fall, 
And  a  mighty  hand  is  writing 

Words  of  judgment  on  the  wall : 
"  Ye  are  weighed  within  the  balance, 

And  found  wanting  "  —  one  and  all. 

Mournful  murmurs,  direful  discords, 
Greet  you  from  Destruction's  night, 

For  Life's  lower  stratum,  heaving, 
Brings  long-buried  wrongs  to  light, 

And  your  souls  shall  find  no  refuge, 
Save  with  the  Eternal  Ri^ht. 


134  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

In  one  grand,  unbroken  phalanx, 

Firm,  united,  bravely  stand, 
Faithful  in  the  way  of  duty, 

Ready  at  the  Truth's  command, 
And  forever  let  your  motto 

Be  this  —  "  GOD  AND  MY  RIGHT  HAND  ! " 


MY    ANGEL.  135 


MY  ANGEL. 

OFT  from  the  summer  hights  of  love, 

Along  the  ways  of  Time, 
The  pilgrims  of  this  lower  sphere 

Catch  gleams  of  light  sublime, 
That  stream  aclown  the  azure  way, 

From  heaven's  unshadowed  clime. 

There,  on  the  balmy,  golden  air, 

Celestial  music  swells, 
Like  harps  Eolian,  gently  blown, 

Or  chime  of  silver  bells  — 
And  there  my  star,  my  angel  love, 

My  spotless  lily  dwells. 

She  came  to  me,  when  from  my  soul 

A  demon  had  been  cast; 
When  I  had  rent  the  servile  chain, 

Which  long  had  held  me  fast, 
And  stood  erect,  in  conscious  power, 

A  strong,  free  man  at  last. 


136  POEMS    OP    PROGRESS. 

The  burnt-out  fire-crypts  of  my  life 
Had  lost  their  crimson  gleam, 

And  emptied  of  their  baleful  glare, 
I  walked  as  in  a  dream, 

With  one  great  purpose  in  my  heart, 
To  be  and  not  to  seem. 

Life's  holiest  lesson  then  was  mine, 

For  when  at  peace  within, 
And  I  had  cleansed  my  erring  heart 

From  its  foul  taint  of  sin, 
That  gentle  maiden,  pure  and  sweet, 

Like  sunshine  entered  in. 

She  was  my  idol  —  O  my  God! 

Have  angel  hearts  above, 
Through  their  long  line  of  endless  life, 

Such  depth  of  power  to  love, 
As  that  with  which  I  folded  close, 

My  tender,  trusting  dove? 

It  was  not  long,  for  when  the  flowers 

Upon  the  green  hill-side 
Closed  their  bright  eyes  to  wake  no  more, 

My  own  sweet  darling  died. 
The  angels  oped  the  shining  door, 

And  called  her  from  my  side. 


MY    ANGEL.  137 

O,  when  they  laid  her  form  to  rest 

Beneath  the  churchyard  sod, 
I  longed  to  follow  in  the  way 

Her  angel  feet  had  trod; 
For,  crushed  and  bruised,  my  spirit  yearned 

To  hide  itself  in  God. 

Love  led  me  to  the  inner  depth, 

Which  sorrow  had  unsealed, 
And  there  I  saw  the  wealth  of  power 

Within  my  soul  concealed  — 
In  that  dark,  desolating  hour, 

Life's  meaning  stood  revealed. 

I  knew  myself,  and  knowing  this, 

The  power  to  me  was  given 
To  bridge  across  the  dark  abyss 

Between  my  soul  and  heaven, 
And  gather  up  the  golden  link 

Which  seemed  so  harshly  riven. 

The  angel  hand  of  her  I  loved 

Was  gently  laid  in  mine ; 
She  led  me,  by  a  path  of  peace, 

To  Truth's  eternal  shrine, 
Where  my  glad  soul  will  never  cease 

To  worship  Love  Divine. 


138  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

Thus  have  I  learned  how  vain  are  creeds 

Man's  reason  to  control; 
His  lesser  life  supplies  its  needs 

From  Life's  majestic  Whole. 
Love  is  the  guiding  star  to  Love, 

And  Soul  must  speak  to  Soul. 


THE    ANGEL   OF   HEALING.  139 


THE  ANGEL  OF  HEALING. 

"  They  shall  lay  hands  on  the  sick,  and  they  shall  recover." 

FORTH  from  a  region  of  shadowless  calm, 
Foi'th  from  a  garden  of  spices  and  balm, 
Came  a  bright  angel,  an  angel  of  love, 
Tenderly  bearing  a  beautiful  dove; 
Soft  as  the  dew-drops  his  feet  pressed  the  sod, 
So  softly  no  blossom  was  bruised  as  he  trod. 

Down   through    the    realms   of   the    blue   summer 

air, 

Floated  the  angel  so  gentle  and  fair  — 
Down  to  the  grief-stricken  bosom  of  earth, 
Whose    children   must    suffer   and    sin   from    their 

birth  — 

Down  where  the  tears  of  the  mourner  are  shed, 
And  wailings  of  sorrow  are  heard  for  the  dead. 

One  moment  he  listened,  as  voices  of  pain 
Came  up  from  the  hill-side,  the  valley  and  plain; 


140  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

There    were  voices    that    pleaded,  in    accents    of 

grief; 

For  comfort  and  healing,  for  hope  and  relief. 
"God,  help  me,"  he   murmured,  soft  breathing  and 

low, 
"  To  heal  all  your  anguish,  ye  children  of  woe." 

Then  he  folded  a  child  to  his  cherishing  breast, 
And  tenderly  hushed  its  complainings  to  rest. 
He  kissed  the  pale  lids  of  a  mourner's  sad  eyes, 
Till   she   saw  the   fair  home  of  her    loved    in    the 

skies. 

And  sorrow,  and  anguish,  and  pain,  and  distress, 
Fled    away    where    he    entered    to    comfort     and 

bless. 

At  length  came  a  mortal,  who  sought  to  find 
rest 

From  the  hopes  and  the  longings  that  strove  in 
his  breast; 

For  all  that  the  world  with  its  wealth  could 
impart, 

Had  failed  to  bring  comfort  and  peace  to  his 
heart. 

"O,  grant  my  petition,  fair  angel,"  he  cried. 

"What  wouldst  thou,  O  mortal?"  the  angel  re 
plied.  


THE    ANGEL    OF    HEALING.  141 

"I  ask  not   for  wealth,  which   would   make    me   a 

slave ; 

I  ask  not  a  name,  to  be  lost  at  the  grave; 
I  ask  not  for  glory,  for  honor,  or  power; 
Or    freedom    from    care    through    my    life's    little 

hour  — 
But   I    ask   that    the   gift  which    hath   made    thee 

divine, 
Of   comfort,   and    healing,   and    strength,    may   be 

mine." 

Then  the  angel  uplifted  a  chalice  most  fair, 
Which  seemed  to  be  filled  with   a  balm-breathing 

air, 

And  a  chrism  outpoured  on  the  suppliant's  head, 
Whose   fragrance   like   soft  wreathing   incense  out 
spread. 

"  Go  forth,"  said  the  angel,  "  thy  mission  fulfill, 
With  faith   in  the  heart,  which   gives   strength  to 
the  will." 

Then  lo!  in  an  instant  the  angel  had  flown, 

And  left  the  glad  mortal  in  silence,  alone ; 

But    a    token    was    given    that    his    mission    was 

blest, 
When  the  dove  fluttered  down  and  reposed  in  his 

breast ; 


142  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

As  the  prophet  of  old  let  his  mantle  of  grace 
Float   downward  to  him  who  should   stand   in   his 
place. 

O  Helper!  O  Healer!  whoever  thou  art, 
Let  love,  like  an  angel,  abide  in  thy  heart. 
Let  mercy  plead  low  for  the  sinful  and  wrong, 
Let   might,   born  of  justice    and   right,   make   thee 

strong ; 

Then  help  shall  descend  at  thy  call  from  above, 
And  peace  in  thy  bosom  shall  rest  like  a  dove. 


TKUTH    TRIUMPHANT.  143 


TRUTH  TRIUMPHANT. 

O  YE  who  dare  not  trust  the  Soul 

To  guide  you  in  your  heavenward  way  — 
Who  turn  from  its  divine  control, 

Blind  Superstition  to  obey  — 
Know  that  at  length  shall  come  an  hour, 

When  darkness  shall  be  changed  to  light, 
And  Truth,  majestic  in  her  power, 

Shall  vindicate  her  ancient  right. 

The  monstrous  blasphemy  of  creeds 

Which  represent  an  angry  God, 
Who  tempts  man  sorely  through  his  needs, 

And  meets  his  failings  with  a  rod  — 
Eternal  wrath,  through  blood  appeased, 

The  curse  of  God,  salvation's  plan, 
Are  nightmare  visions,  which  have  seized 

The  slumbering  consciousness  of  man. 

Beyond  the  dim  and  distant  line, 
Which  bounds  the  vision  of  to-day, 

Great  stars  of  truth  shall  rise  and  shine 
With  steady  and  unclouded  ray; 


144  POEMS    OP   PROGRESS. 

And  calm,  brave  souls,  who  through  the  night 
Have  waited  patiently  and  long, 

Will  see  these  heralds  of  the  light, 

And  feel  themselves  in  truth  made  strong. 

Blind  Superstition,  cowering,  sits 

Amid  the  ashes  of  the  past ; 
While  old  Tradition,  bat-like,  flits 

Where  Time  its  deepest  gloom  hath  cast. 
The  bigot,  prospering  through  fraud, 

Pays  to  the  church  his  tithes,  and  then, 
With  pious  fervor,  thanks  the  Lord 

That  "he  is  not  like  other  men." 

The  church,  by  deep  dissensions  riven, 

To  man's  progression  shuts  the  door, 
And  failing  thus  to  enter  heav.en, 

The  "poor  in  spirit"  walk  before. 
The  blood  of  millions  on  her  hands  — 

She  pampers  pride  and  winks  at  sin  — 
A  whited  sepulchre  she  stands, 

Hiding  but  dead  men's  bones  within. 

We  do  not  ask  for  forms  and  creeds, 

Or  useless  dogmas,  old  or  new, 
But  we  do  ask  for  Christian  deeds, 

With  man's  progression  full  in  view. 


TRUTH    TRIUMPHANT.  145 

Let  her  be  first  to  aid  and  bless, 
And  not  the  first  to  cast  a  stone, 

The  while  her  robes  of  righteousness 
Are  over  foul  corruptions  thrown. 

The  pure,  fresh  impulse  of  to-day, 

Which  thrills  within  the  human  heart, 
As  time-worn  errors  pass  away, 

Fresh  life  and  vigor  shall  impart. 
New  hopes,  like  beauteous  strangers,  wait 

An  entrance  to  man's  willing  breast, 
And  child-like  faith  unbars  the  gate, 

To  welcome  in  each  heavenly  guest. 

The  new  must  e'er  supplant  the  old, 

While  Time's  unceasing  current  flows, 
Only  new  beauties  to  unfold, 

And  brighter  glories  to  disclose; 
For  every  crumbling  altar-stone 

That  falls  upon  the  way  of  time, 
Eternal  wisdom  hath  overthrown, 

To  build  a  temple  more  sublime. 

O  ye!  who  dare  not  trust  the  soul 
To  guide  you  in  the  way  to  heaven, 

Remember  that  the  lifeless  whole 
Is  quickened  by  the  hidden  leaven; 
10 


146  POEMS    OF   PEOGEESS. 

And  they  who,  fearlessly  and  free, 
The  rugged  hights  of  life  ascend, 

With  one  united  voice  agree, 
"It  can  be  trusted  to  the  end" 


JUBIiLAfE. 


BY     MISS     LIZZIE     DOTEN. 


(Air — Auld  Lang  Sync.} 

The  world  has  felt  a  quickening  breath 

From  Heaven's  eternal  shore, 
And  souls  triumphant  over  Death 

Return  to  earth  once  more. 
For  this  we  hold  our  jubilee, 

For  this  with  joy  we  sing — 
"O  Grave!  where  is  thy  victory? 

O  Death  !  where  is  thy  sting?" 

Our  cypress  wreaths  are  laid  aside 

For  amaranthine  flowers, 
For  Death's  cold  wave  does  not  divide 

The  souls  we  love  from  ours. 
From  pain,  and  death,  and  sorrow  free, 

They  join  with  us  to  sing — 
"  O  Grave!  where  is  thy  victory? 

O  Death  !  where  is  thy  sting?" 

"  Sweet  spirits,  welcome  yet  again  !" 

With  loving  hearts  we  cry; 
And  "  Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men," 

The  angel  hosts  reply. 
From  doubt  and  fear,  through  truth  made  free, 

With  faith  triumphant  sing — 
"  O  Grave!  where  is  thy  victory? 

O  Death  !  where  is  thy  sting?'' 


This  Ode  was  sung;  at  Boston  Music  Hall,  on  March 
31,  iS6S,  it  being-  the  Twentieth  Anniversary  of  Modern 
Spiritualism.  It  is  now  reissued  by  the  Shawinut  Spiritual 
Lyceum,  and  the  audience  is  invited  to  join  in  the  s 


March,  31,   iSSi. 


GOOD    IN   ALL.  147 


GOOD  IN  ALL. 

'Tis  a  beautiful  thought,  by  Philosophy  taught, 
That   from   all    things  created   some   good   is   out- 
wrought  ; 

That  each  is  for  use,  and  not  one  for  abuse, 
Which  leaves  the  transgressor  no  room  for  excuse. 

Thus  the  great,  and   the   small,  and  the  humblest 

of  all, 

To  action  and  duty  alike  have  a  call ; 
And  he  does  the  best,  who  excels  all  the  rest, 
In  making  the  lot  of  humanity  blest. 

As  Jonathan  Myer  sat  one  night  by  the  fire, 
Watching  the  flames  from  the  embers  expire, 
O'er  his  senses  there  stole,  and  into  his  soul, 
A  spell  of  enchantment  he  could  not  control. 

The  wind  shook  his  door,  and  a  terrible  roar 
In   his  chimney  was   heard,  like  the  waves  on   the 
shore. 


148  POEMS    OF    PKOGKESS. 

In  wonder,  amazed,  old  Jonathan  gazed 

At  the  huge  oaken  back-log  as  fiercely  it  blazed. 

The  flames  of  his  fire  leaped  higher  and  higher, 
And  out  of  its  brightness  looked  images  dire ; 
Till    at    length,   a    great    brand    straight    on    end 

seemed  to  stand, 
And  then  into  human  proportions  expand. 

Old  Jonathan  said,  with  a  shake  of  his  head, 
"There's  nothing  in  nature  I've  reason  to  dread, 
For   my  conscience   is    clear,  and    I'd   not    have  a 

fear, 
Should  Satan  himself  at  this  moment  appear." 

"  Ha !  your  words  shall  be  tried,"  quick  the  demon 

replied, 

"  For,  lo !  I  am  Satan,  here,  close  by  your  side. 
Men  should  never  defy  such  a  being  as  I, 
For  when  they  least  think  it,  behold  I  am  nigh." 

Said  Jonathan  Myer,  as  he  stirred  up  the  fire, 
"  Your  face  nor  your  figure  I  do  not  admire ; 
But  if  that  is  your  style,  why,  it  isn't  worth  while 
For  me  to  find  fault  or  your  Maker  revile. 

"  Now  don't  have  a  fear,  lest  it  should  appear 
That  you're  an  intruder  —  I  welcome  you  here ! 


GOOD    IN    ALL.'  149 

So  pray  take  a  seat,  and  warm  up  your  feet, 
For  I   think  I   have  heard  that  you're  partial  to 
heat." 

"Well,  you  are  either  a  fool  or  remarkably  cool," 
Said  Satan  —  accepting  the  low  wooden  stool  — 
"But  before  I  depart,  I  will  give  you  a  start 
Which   will   send  back  the  blood  with  a  rush  to 
your  heart." 

"Well,  and  what  if  you  should?  It  might  do  me 
good, 

For  a  shock  sometimes  helps  one  —  so  I've  under 
stood. 

But  just  here  let  me  say,  that  for  many  a  day 

I've  been  hoping  and  wishing  you'd  happen  this 
way. 

"  So  give  us  your  hand,  and  you'll  soon  under 
stand, 

What  a  work  in  the  future  for  you  I  have 
planned." 

Satan's  hand  he  then  seized,  which  he  forcibly 
squeezed, 

At  which  the  arch  fiend  looked  more  angry  than 
pleased. 


150  POEMS    OF    PEOGEESS. 

A  puzzled  surprise  looked  out  of  his  eyes, 
Which    was   really  quite  strange   for  the    "Father 

of  Lies." 
"  Come,"   said  he,   "  this   won't  do  —  I  am   Satan, 

not  your 
Said  Jonathan  Myer,  "Very  true,  very  true. 

"Now  don't  get  perplexed,  excited  or  vexed, 
At  what  I'm  about  to  present  to  you  next. 
Your  attention  please  lend,  and  you'll  see  in  the  end, 
That  Jonathan  Myer,  at  least,  is  your  friend. 

"  I've  been  led  to  suppose,  in  spite  of  your  foes, 
That  you  are  far  better  than  any  one  knows. 
Now,  if  there  is  good,  in  stock,  stone,  or  wood, 
I'm  bound  to  get  at  it,  as  every  one  should. 

"  So  I'll   not  have  a  fear  —  though   you   seem   sort 

o'  queer  — 

But  what  all  your  goodness  will  shortly  appear. 
Fact  —  I   know    that   it   will,  though   'tis   mingled 

with  ill. 
So  —  so  —  don't    get    restless  —  be    patient  —  sit 

still. 

"  Now  I  long  since  agreed,  that  there  was  great  need 
Of  a  Devil  and  Hell  in  the  Orthodox  creed. 


GOOD   IN   ALL.  151 

All  things  are  for  use,  and  none  for  abuse, 

(And  the  same  law  applies  to  a  man  or  a  goose.) 

"So  they'll  keep   you  in   play  till  the  Great  Judg 
ment  Day, 

When  the  Saviour  of  sinners  will  thrust  you  away. 
But  then,  don't  you  see,  they  and  I  don't  agree; 
So  you'll  not  be  obliged  to  play  Satan  to  me. 

"'Even  now,  in  your  eyes,  does  there  slowly  arise 
A  look,  which  no  lover  of  good  can  despise. 
So  open  your  heart  and  its  goodness  impart, 
For  now  there's  no  need  you  should  practice  your 
art." 

O,  strange  to  relate !  all  that  visage  of  hate, 
Which  wore  such  a  fearful  expression  of  late, 
Grew  gentle  and  mild  as  the  face  of  a  child, 
Ere  the  springs  of  its   life   have  with   doubt  been 
defiled. 

And  a  voice,  soft  and  low  as  a  rivulet's  flow, 
Said  gently,  "  I  was  but  in  seeming  your  foe. 
Man  ever  will  find,  in  himself  or  his  kind, 
Either  evil  or  good,  as  he  makes  up  his  mind. 

"As  God  is  in  all,  so  he  answered  your  call, 
And  the  evil  appearance  to  you  is  let  fall. 


152  POEMS   OF   PROGRESS. 

This  truth  I  commend  to  your  soul  as  a  friend, 
That  evil  will  all  change  to  good  in  the  end." 

Then  Jonathan  Myer  sat  alone  by  his  fire, 

Till  he  saw  the  last  light  from  the  embers  expire, 

And  he  thoughtfully  said,  as  he  turned  toward  his 

bed, 
"I  will  banish  all  hate  and  put  love  in  its  stead." 

"I   will  do,  and  not   dream  —  I   will   be,  and   not 

seem, 
And   the   triumph  of   goodness    I'll    take   for   my 

theme. 
Great  Spirit  above !     I  have   learned  through   thy 

love, 
That  the  Serpent  has  uses  as  well  as  the  Dove." 


JOHN   ENDICOTT.  153 


JOHN  ENDICOTT. 

"If  ye  love  me,  keep  my  commandments." — JESUS. 

TRUTH  hath  no  need  of  outward  sign, 

To  hold  her  calm,  resistless  sway  — 
No  symbol,  howsoe'er  divine, 

Can  rule  the  conscience  of  to-day. 
And  he  who,  scorning  praise  or  blame, 

Stays  not  to  kneel  before  the  cross. 
But  serves  the  Truth  through  flood  and  flame, 

Shall  win  the  crown,  nor  suffer  loss. 

Back  to  the  old  heroic  Past, 

With  reverent  hearts,  our  gaze  we  turn  — 
From  souls  proved  faithful  to  the  last, 

A  lesson  for  to-day  we  learn. 
Once  more,  as  from  a  master's  hand, 

Upon  life's  canvass  glows  the  scene  — 
Once  more  behold  that  little  band 

Of  valiant  men  on  Salem  green. 


154  POEMS    OF   PEOGEESS. 

Had  they  not  left  the  friends  of  youth, 

Their   childhood's    home,   their   fathers'  graves, 
That  they  might  worship  God  in  truth, 

And  be  no  more  a  tyrant's  slaves? 
Still  followed  fast  the  royal  wrath ; 

And  as  they  marched  with  measured  tread, 
Casting  its  shadow  o'er  their  path, 

The  tyrant's  flag  waved  over  head. 

"Halt!"  said  the  brave  John  Endicott, 

With  knitted  brow  and  eyes  aflame; 
"Halt!  —  Forward!  Ensign  Davenport! 

Down  with  that  flag!  in  God's  high  name!" 
Down  drooped  the  flag,  whose  folds  of  blood 

Seemed  like  the  Parcas's  web  of  fate, 
Whereon  the  cross  so  long  had  stood 

For  tyranny  in  Church  and  State. 

He  raised  his  hand,  and  sternly  tore 

The  red  cross  from  its  field  of  blue; 
Then  nerved  with  fire  his  arm  upbore, 

And  held  the  fragment  full  in  view. 
"Now  by  the  homage  that  we  pay 

To  God  the  Father,  God  the  Son, 
May  righteous  Heaven  approve  this  day 

The  deed  that  my  right  hand  hath  done." 


JOHN   ENDICOTT.  155 

"To  Him  whose  law  hath  all  sufficed, 

Be  power  and  glory  evermore, 
But  this  cursed  sign  of  Anti-Christ 

Shall  not  profane  this  hallowed  shore." 
One  moment  —  and  a  hush  like  death  — 

Then  flashed  the  fire  from  every  eye, 
And  like  the  tempest's  sudden  breath, 

A  shout  tumultuous  rent  the  sky. 

Those  ranks  of  stern,  heroic  men, 

Who  asked  no  favor,  knew  no  fear, 
Could  "beard  the  lion  in  his  den," 

When  duty  made  the  pathway  clear, 
There  in  the  howling  wilderness, 

In  holy  triumph  did  they  sing, 
"  Christ  is  our  refuge  in  distress, 

The  Lord  of  Hosts  alone  is  King." 

Linked,  by  the  lengthening  years  of  time, 

To  all  that  grand  heroic  past, 
The  mantle  of  their  faith  sublime 

Is  on  this  generation  cast. 
Whene'er  the  cross  no  longer  stands 

For  freedom,  faith,  and  love  divine, 
Men  tear  it  down  with  willing  hands, 

And  worship  God  without  the  sign. 


156  POEMS    OP   PROGRESS. 

John  Endicott!  John  Endicott! 

Thine  earthly  victory  is  won, 
But  valiant  still,  and  swerving  not, 

Thy  steadfast  soul  "is  marching  on." 
Like  thee  we  would  be  brave  and  true, 

And  fearless  in  the  faith  abide, 
That  souls  who  nobly  dare  and  do, 

Have  God  and  Heaven  upon  their  side. 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    FREEDOM.  157 


THE  TRIUMPH   OF   FREEDOM. 

REJOICE  !  O  blood-stained  Nation,  in  darkness 
wandering  long, 

For  Freedom  is  triumphant,  and  Right  hath  con 
quered  Wrong. 

To-day,  the  glorious  birthright  the  patriot  Fathers 
gave, 

Makes,  through  Eternal  Justice,  a  freeman  of  the 
slave. 

And  swift  the  glorious  tidings,  which  rolls  majes 
tic  on, 

Thrills  from  old  Massachusetts  to  the  shores  of 
Oregon. 

The  gray  old  mountain-echoes  shout  it  loudly  to 
the  sea, 

And  the  wild  winds  join  the  chorus  in  the  "  anthem 
of  the  free." 

For  this,  the  God  of  nations  sealed   this   land  as 

sacred  soil, 
And    thenceforth   made    it    holy,  with    blood,    and 

sweat,  and  toil. 


158  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

For  this,  the   lonely  Mayflower   spread  her  white 

wings  to  the  breeze, 
And  bore  the   Pilgrim  Fathers   across  the  stormy 

seas. 

For  this,  the  blood  of  patriots  baptized  old  Bunker 
Hill, 

And  Lexington  and  Concord  made  known  the  peo 
ple's  will. 

For  this,  both  Saratoga  and  Yorktown's  fields  were 
won, 

And  Fame's  unfading  laurels  wreathed  the  brow 
of  Washington. 

For  this,  your  glorious  Channing  plead  on  the 
"weaker  side," 

And  Parker,  brave  and  fearless,  sought  to  stem  Op 
pression's  tide. 

Fcr  this,  the  lips  of  Phillips  burned  with  Athenian 
fire, 

Till  every  flaming  sentence  leapt  forth  in  righteous 
ire. 

And  Garrison,  the  dauntless,  declared,   "I  will  be 

heard ! " 
O  thou  sturdy,  war-worn  veteran!  well  hast  thou 

kept  thy  word! 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    FREEDOM.  159 

Thou  hast  sent  the  foul  Hyena  howling  fiercely  to 
his  den, 

And  thy  battle-cry  was  "Freedom!"  till  the  can 
non  said,  "  Amen ! " 

For    this,    like    royal    Caesar,    within    the    Senate 

Hall, 
On  the  noble   head  of  Sumner  did  the  blows  of 

Slavery  fall; 
For  this,  that  band  of  heroes,  with  their  Spartan 

chief,  John  Brown, 
As  a  sacrifice  to  Freedom,  their  precious  lives  laid 

down. 

And  for  this  you  bore  and  suffered,  "till  forbear 
ance  ceased  to  be 

A  virtue,"  and  High  Heaven  called  on  you  to  be 
free. 

Then,  once  more,  the  blood  of  heroes  leaped  like 
fire  within  each  vein, 

And  the  long-slumbering  Lion  rose,  and,  wrathful, 
shook  his  mane. 

O!  the  page  of  future  history  shall,  with  truthful 

record,  tell 
How   you  met  the  fearful  issue,  how  bravely  and 

how  well; 


160  POEMS    OF   PKOGEESS. 

How  you  gave  uncounted  treasure  from  out  your 

toil-won  hoard, 
And    how,    as    free    as    water,    heroic    blood    was 

poured ;  — 

How  Grant,  with  stern  persistence,  smote  the  foe- 
men  day  by  day; 

How  Sheridan  and  Sherman  urged  their  victorious 
way; 

How  Farragut  and  Porter  swept  triumphant  o'er 
the  sea, 

And  how  the  gallant  Winslow  won  his  glorious 
victory ;  — 

And  alas!  how  noble  Ellsworth  fell  in  his  youth 
ful  pride, 

And  Winthrop,  Baker,  Lyon,  for  Freedom  bled  and 
died; 

And  true,  brave  hearts  unnumbered,  before  the  can 
non's  breath, 

On  the  wild,  red  sea  of  slaughter,  swept  down  the 
tide  of  death ;  — 

And    how,     amid     the     tumult,    in     every    battle 

pause, 
Was  heard  the  cry  for  "Justice   to  the   bondman 

and  his  cause." 


THE    TRIUMPH    OP   FREEDOM.  161 

O!  your  fathers'  slumbering  ashes  cried,  "Amen!" 

from  out  each  grave, 
When  your  grand  old   Constitution  gave  freedom 

to  the  slave. 

And,    as    the    glorious    tidings     upon    the    nation 

fell, 
Satan,  with  all  his  legions,  went  howling  down  to 

Hell. 
Of  crime    and    blood    no   longer    could    he    freely 

drink  his  fill, 
For  the  cursed  demon,  Slavery,  had  best  performed 

his  will. 

Let  words  of  deep  thanksgiving  blend  with  the 
tears  you  shed 

For  the  hosts  of  noble  martyrs  who  in  Freedom's 
cause  have  bled. 

Though  they  fell  before  the  sickle  which  reaps  the 
battle-plain, 

Yet,  to-day,  they  know  in  heaven,  that  they  per 
ished  not  in  vain. 

Your  nation's  glorious   Eagle,  with  an  unfaltering 

flight, 
Hath  perched  at  length,  in  triumph,  on  Freedom's 

loftiest  height; 
11 


162  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

The   stars   upon  your    banner   burn  with   a   fairer 

flame, 
And  the  radiant  stripes  no  longer  are  emblems  of 

your  shame. 

The  slave,  made  like  his  master,  "in  the  image  of 

his  God," 
Shall   bare  his  back  no  longer  to   the   oppressor's 

rod; 
His  night  of  pain  and  anguish,  of  want  and  woe, 

has  past, 
And    Freedom's    radiant   morning  has   dawned  on 

him  at  last. 

O    thou    Recording    Angel !     turn    to    that    page 

whereon 
Is    traced,   in   undimmed  brightness,  the  name   of 

Washington, 
And,    with    thy    pen    immortal,   in    characters    of 

flame, 
To  stand  henceforth  and  ever,  write  also  Lincoln's 

name ! 

The  first  hurled  back  the  tyrant,  in  the  country's 
hour  of  need, 

The  last,  divinely  guided,  hath  made  her  free  in 
deed. 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF   FREEDOM.  163 

Let   a   nation's    grateful   tribute  to   each,  alike,  be 

given, 
While  the  kingdom,  power  and  glory  are  ascribed 

alone  to  Heaven. 

"Ethiopia  no  longer  stretcheth  forth  her  hands  "in 
vain; 

On  the  demon  of  oppression  she  hath  left  her  ser 
vile  chain ; 

Then  swell  the  shout  of  triumph,  till  the  nations 
hear  afar; 

Three  cheers  —  three  cheers  for  Freedom!  Huzza! 
Huzza !  Huzza ! 


164  POEMS   OF   PEOGKESS. 


OUR   SOLDIERS'  GRAVES. 

SONS  of  the  nation  to  glory  restored, 

Strew   with   fresh   laurels   the  patriot's   grave  — 
Heed  the  libation  to  Liberty  poured  — 

Honor  the  blood  of  the  fearless  and  brave. 

When  the  red  bolts  of  destruction  were  hurled, 
Bursting  in  tempests  of  fury  and  flame, 

Faithful  to  Freedom,  the  hope  of  the  world, 
Swift  to  the  rescue  each  patriot  came. 

Breasting  the  waves  of  the  battle's  wild  sea, 
Facing,  unflinching,  the  cannon's  hot  breath, 

Hail  to  the  brave!  who  marched  fearless  and  free, 
Down  to  the  valley  and  shadow  of  Death. 

Trace  it  in  marble  as  white  as  the  snows, 
Chisel  in  granite  the  record  sublime, 

Sacred  to  Freedom  —  and  teaching  our  foes 
Lessons  of  wisdom  as  lasting  as  time. 


OUR  SOLDIERS'  GRAVES.  165 

Bright  as  the  stars  in  the  firmament  shine, 

Still    may  they  watch   o'er   this    land    from    on 
high, 

Teaching  our  hearts,  as  their  names  we  enshrine, 
Faithful  to  Freedom  to  live  and  to  die. 


166  POEMS   OF   PROGRESS. 


OUTWARD  BOUND. 

IT  was  midnight   dark,  when  I  launched   my  bark 

On  a  wild,  tempestuous  sea; 
The  lightnings  flashed,  and  the  white  waves  dashed 

Like  steeds  from  the  rein  set  free. 
'Twas  a  fearful  night,  and  no  beacon-light 

O'er  the  waste  of  waters  shone ; 
On  the  wide,  wide  sweep  of  the  angry  deep, 

Alas!  I  was  all  alone. 

I  had  left  behind  the  faithful  and  kind, 
The  gentle  and  true  of  heart ; 

0  God  above !  from  their  clinging  love, 
It  was  hard,  it  was  hard  to  part. 

O,  why  did  I  leave  such  hearts  to  grieve, 

And  haste  from  my  home  away? 
'Twas  the  chosen  hour  of  a  mighty  power, 

Whose  summons  I  must  obey. 

1  had  heard  the  call  which  must  come  to  all, 
And  I  felt,  by  my  quickened  breath, 

I  must  leave  that  shore  to  return  no  more, 
For  the  name  of  that  sea  was  Death. 


OUTWARD  BOUND.  167 

Thus  Outward  Bound,  with  a  dizzy  sound 

Like  waves  in  my  troubled  brain, 
I  drifted  away  like  a  soul  astray, 

For  I  felt  that  to  strive  was  vain. 

Like  the  brooding  wing  of  some  grewsome  thing, 

The  darkness  around  me  spread; 
The  wild  winds  roared,  and  the  tempests  poured 

Their  fury  upon  my  head. 
Anon  through  the  night,  like  serpents  bright, 

The  quivering  lightnings  came, 
Or  an  instant  coiled  where  the  white  waves  boiled, 

To  moisten  their  tongues  of  flame. 

In  the  giddy  whirl,  in  the  greedy  swirl, 

I  felt  I  was  sinking  fast, 
When  an  arm,  as  white  as  the  opal  bright, 

Was  firmly  around  me  cast. 
And  a  well-known  voice  made  my  heart  rejoice — 

"Fear  not!   for  the  strife  is  o'er; 
To  your  resting-place  in  my  warm  embrace, 

Do  I  welcome  you  back  once  more." 

Twas  my  mother  dear  spake  those  words  of  cheer, 

Whom  I  met  with  a  glad  surprise, 
For  I  thought  she  slept  where  the  willows  wept, 

Till  the  day  when  the  dead  should  rise. 


168  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

I  had  passed  away  from  my  form  of  clay, 

But  not  to  a  distant  sphere; 
Like  a  troubled  dream  did  the  struggle  seem, 

For  my  spirit  still  lingered  here. 

I  had  weathered  the  storm,  hut  my  mortal  form 

Like  a  wreck  in  my  presence  lay; 
They  said  I  was  dead  when  my  spirit  fled, 

And  with  weeping  they  turned  away. 
Then  the  dearest  came,  and  she  sobbed  my  name ; 

But  how  could  those  pale  lips  speak? 
She  bent  o'er  my  form  like  a  reed  in.  the  storm, 

As  she  kissed  my  clay-cold  cheek. 

I  was  with  her  there,  and  with  tender  care 

I  folded  her  close  to  my  breast,* 
Till  the  heart's  wild  throb,  and  the  bursting  sob, 

Were  silenced  and  soothed  to  rest. 
O  human  love!  there  is  nought  above, 

That  ever  will  rudely  part 
The  sacred  tie,  or  the  union  high, 

Of  those  who  are  one  in  heart. 

A  bridge  leads  o'er  from  the  heavenly  shore, 

Where  the  happy  spirits  pass, 
And  the   angels  that  stand  with   the   harp   in  the 
hand, 

On  the  "  sea,  as  it  were,  of  glass," 


OUTWARD    BOUND.  169 

Play  so  soft  and  clear  that  the  human  ear, 

And  the  spirits  who  love  the  Lord, 
Can  catch  the  sound  through  the  space  profound, 

And  join  in  the  sweet  accord. 

O,  what  is  death?    'Tis  a  fleeting  breath  — 

A  simple  but  blessed  change  — 
'Tis  rending  a  chain,  that  the  soul  may  gain 

A  higher  and  broader  range. 
Unbounded  space  is  its  dwelling-place, 

Where  no  human  foot  hath  trod, 
But  everywhere  doth  it  feel  the  care 

And  the  changeless  love  of  God. 

O,  then,  though   you  weep  when   your  loved  ones 
sleep, 

When  the  rose  on  the  cheek  grows  pale, 
Yet  their  forms  of  light,  just  concealed  from  sight. 

Are  only  behind  the  vail. 
With  their  faces  fair,  and  their  shining  hair 

With  blossoms  of  beauty  crowned, 
They  will  also  stand,  with  a  helping  hand, 

When  you  shall  be  Outward  Bound. 


170  POEMS   OF   PROGRESS. 


THE  WANDERER'S  WELCOME  HOME. 

A  WOMAN,  with  weary  heart  and  hand, 

Wasted  and  worn  by  the  rude  world's   strife, 

Prayed  for  the  peace  of  the  better  land, 
And  the  mansions  fair  of  the  higher  life. 

She  prayed  at  night  in  the  churchyard  lone, 

Resting  her  brow  on  a  cold,  white  stone. 

All  of  that  day  in  the  public  street, 

She  had  played  on  her  harp  and  patiently  sung, 
Till  the  cold  wind  palsied  her  weary  feet, 

And  chilled  the  words  on  her  faltering  tongue. 
And  but  one  penny  to  meet  her  need 
Had  the  cold  world  spared  from  its  selfish  greed. 

O,  the  mocking  words  of  "  Home,  sweet  home," 
Had  she  sung  for  that  paltry,  pitiful  fee, 

She  who  thus  lonely  was  doomed  to  roam, 
While  never  a  home  on  earth  had  she ; 

But  often  the  lips  must  perform  a  part 

That  is  foreign  and  false  to  the  aching  heart. 


THE  WANDERER'S  WELCOME  HOME.         171 

At  night,  by  her  sorrowful  longings  led, 

She  had  turned  from  the  dwellings  of  men  away, 

And  sought  the  place  of  the  sleeping  dead, 
In  silence  and  darkness  alone  to  pray. 

While  her  harp,  as  it  sighed  in  the  wintry  air, 

Seemed  to  echo  the  tone  of  her  lone  heart's  prayer. 

Her  face  was  white  as  the  drifted  snows, 
And  her  eyes  were  fixed  in  a  dull  despair, 

As  if  the  chilling  tide  of  her  woes 

Had  swelled  from  her  heart,  and  had  frozen  there. 

She  lifted  her  hands  to  the  wintry  sky, 

And  prayed  in  her  anguish,  "  Lord,  let  me  die ! " 

Then  soft  and  clear  to  her  quickened  sense 

A  vision  of  heavenly  beauty  came ; 
Her  spirit  thrilled  with  a  joy  intense, 

And  her  heart  grew  warm  with  a  heavenly  flame. 
Sweet  voices  were  singing,  "No  longer  roam, 
But  haste  to  the  joys  of  thy  '  home,  sweet  home.' " 

The  stars  looked  down  from  the  wintry  skies 
In  solemn  beauty,  undimmed  and  clear, 

But  the  vision  that  greeted  her  eager  eyes 
Was  unto  her  spirit  both  warm  and  near. 

Again  those  voices  poured  forth  the  lay, 

"To  thy  'home,  sweet  home,'  O,  haste  away." 


172  POEMS    OP   PROGRESS. 

She  seized  her  harp,  and  her  white  hand  swept 
With  a  full  accord  o'er  its  trembling  strings, 

Waking  the  echoes  that  round  her  slept, 

Like  the  swan,  which  in  dying  so  sweetly  sings, 

As  she  answered  them  back,  "No  more  to  roam, 

Lo!  I  come,  I  come  to  my  'home,  sweet  home.'" 

The  watchman  who  went  on  his  lonely  round 
Felt  his  stout  heart  thrill  with  a  sense  of  dread, 

When  he  heard  that  strange  and  unwonted  sound 
Come  forth  from  the  place  of  the  silent  dead. 

He  listened,  and  breathed  a  fervent  prayer 

For  the  rest  of  the  dreamless  sleepers  there. 

The  watchman  who  went  on  his  lonely  round 
Remembered  that  sound  at  break  of  day, 

And  he  turned  aside  to  the  hallowed  ground, 
Where  the  dead  in  their  quiet  slumbers  lay. 

And  there  he  found,  by  the  cold,  white  stone, 

The  lifeless  form  whence  the  soul  had  flown. 

With  white  lips  parted,  and  eyes  upraised, 
And  her  hands  to  the  harp-strings  frozen  cold, 

The  warm  blood  chilled  in  his  veins  as  he  gazed, 
And    he    thought    of   the    weight   of   her   woes 
untold. 

"Great  God!"  he  said,  "is  our  faith  a  lie, 

That  thus,  unheeded,  thy  children  die!" 


THE  WANDERER'S  WELCOME  HOME.         173 

"Hush,  murmuring  spirit!"  the  Truth  replied; 

"  Loss  ever  walks  hand  in  hand  with  gain ; 
Life  hath  its  sunny  and  shady  side, 

Its  major,  as  well  as  its  minor  strain. 
And  she  who  thus  lonely  was  doomed  to  roam 
Now  rests  at  peace  in  her  '  home,  sweet  home." 

"The  pilgrims  of  earth,  in  their  homeward  way, 
Full  often  in  danger  and  doubt  must  stand ; 

But  out  of  the  darkness  shall  come  the  day, 
And  strength  and  healing  from  God's  right  hand. 

And  the  scales  of  life,  as  they  rise  and  fall, 

Full  measures  of  justice  shall  mete  to  all." 


174  POEMS   OF   PROGRESS. 


LABOR  AND  WAIT. 

ALL  green,  and  bitter,  and  hard,  and  sour, 

The  fruit  on  the  Tree  of  Life  is  growing ; 
But  the  genial  sunshine,  with  quickening  power, 

Will  sweeten  its  juices  like  nectar  flowing. 
For  the  full,  fair  growth  of  its  perfect  state 

There  is  only  needed  the  right  condition. 
Then  labor  and  wait,  both  early  and  late, 

Till  the  ripening  future  shall  bring  fruition. 

Far  out  in  the  harvest  fields  of  Time, 

The  grain  for  the  reaper  is  standing  ready, 
And  they  who  come  to  the  work  sublime 

Must  toil  with  a  patience  calm  and  steady. 
Truth  never  was  subject  to  Chance  or  Fate  — 

Its  sickle,  so  sharp,  cuts  clean  and  even. 
Then  labor  and  wait,  both  early  and  late, 

For  the  seed-field  of  Earth  yields  the  harvest  of 
Heaven. 


LABOR    AND    WAIT.  175 

In  their  quiet  graves,  on  the  green  hill-side, 

The  sacred  dust  of  your  loved  is  sleeping ; 
And  the  homes  where  the  light  of  their  smile  has 
died 

Are  filled  with  the  sorrowful  sounds  of  weeping. 
But  over  the  gloomy  clouds  of  Fate, 

The  light  of  the  better  land  is  shining ; 
Then  labor  and  wait,  both  early  and  late, 

For  the  cloud  of  Death  has  a  silver  lining. 

There  are  fair,  sweet  faces,  and  gentle  eyes, 

That  look  through  the  shadows  and  mists  above 

you; 
And  the  fond  affection  that  never  dies, 

Still  speaks  from  the  lips  of  the  blest  who  love 

you. 
They  call  you  up  from  your  low  estate, 

To  the  boundless  bliss  of  the  life  supernal. 
Then  labor  and  wait,  both  early  and  late, 

For  Time  is  short,  but  Life  is  Eternal. 


176  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 


FRAE    RHYMING  ROBIN. 

The   following1  poem  was  given  under  the  inspiration  of  Robert 
Burns,  at  the  close  of  a  lecture  on  "  The  Immaculate  Conception." 

Gum  FRIENDS: 

I  WILL  na'  weave  my  rhymes  to-night 

In  winsome  measure, 
Or  strive  your  fancies  to  delight 

"WT  songs  o'  pleasure ; 
But  gin  '  ye  hae  na'  heard  too  much 

O'  solemn  preachin', 
I'll  gie  ye  just  anither  touch 

O'  useful  teachin'. 

But,  aiblins,2  when  ye  hear  my  verse, 

Ye  may  be  thinkin' 
That  I  hae  sunk  frae  bad  to  warse, 

And  still  am  sinkin' ; 
But  though  I  seem  to  fa'  from  grace, 

In  man's  opinion, 
Auld  Hornie  ne'er  will  see  my  face 

In  his  dominion. 

1  If.  *  Perhaps. 


FKAE    RHYMING    KOBIN.  177 

An  unco  l  change  will  come,  ere  lang, 

O'er  all  your  dreamin', 
And  ye  shall  see  that  right  and  wrang 

Are  much  in  seemin'. 
Man  shall  na'  langer  perjure  love, 

Nor  think  it  treason 
Anent2  the  mighty  King  above, 

To  use  his  reason. 

Ay,  love  and  nature,  frae  the  first, 

Hae  been  perverted, 
And  man,  frae  Adam,  will  be  cursed, 

Till  he's  converted : 
For  Nature  will  avenge  her  cause 

On  ilka3  creature, 
Who  will  na'  take  her,  wi'  her  laws, 

For  guide  and  teacher. 

Auld  Custom  is  a  sleekit4  saint, 

And  sae  is  Fashion, 
And  baith  will  watch  till  sinners  faint, 

To  lay  the  lash  on ; 
Men  follow  them  wi'  ane  accord, 

Led  by  their  noses, 
Because  they  cry,  "Thus  saith  the  Lord, 

The  God  o'  Moses." 

i  Very  great.         2  Against.          »  Every.          *  Cunning. 

12 


178  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

The  time  will  come  when  man  will  ken 

God's  word  far  better; 
He'll  live  mair  in  the  spirit  then, 

Less  in  the  letter; 
And  that  which  man  ance  called  impure, 

Through  partial  seein', 
He'll  find  for  it  baith  cause  and  cure, 

In  his  ain  bein'. 

Man  needna'  gae  to  auld  lang  syne 

For  truth  to  guide  him, 
For  if  he  seeks,  he  sure  will  fin' 

Truth  close  beside  him. 
Each  gowan :  is  ordained  o'  grace 

To  be  his  teacher, 
And  ilka  toddlin'  weanie's2  face 

Is  text  and  preacher. 

Man  was  na'  born  a  child  o'  hell 

Frae  his  creation: 
The  love  that  made  him  will  itseP 

Be  his  salvation. 
Each  child  that's  born  o'  perfect  love 

Can  be  man's  saviour: 
Love  is  his  warrant  frae  above, 

For  guid  behavior. 

l  Daisy.  *  Each  tottering  child. 


FRAE    RHYMING    ROBIN.  179 

His  mither  may  be  high  or  low, 

A  Miss  or  Madam  ; 
The  God  within  him  will  outgrow 

The  sin  o'  Adam; 
His  only  bed  may  be  the  earth, 

His  hame  a  shealin' ; ' 
It  will  na'  change  his  real  worth, 

Or  inward  feelin'. 

Though  born  beneath  the  Church's  ban, 

Or  man's  displeasure, 
He  will  na'  be  the  less  a  man 

In  mind  or  measure. 
God's  image,  stamped  upon  his  brow, 

Is  his  defender, 
And  makes  him  —  as  ye  hae  it  now  — 

"Guid  legal  tender." 

But  ilka  child  that's  born  o'  hate  — 

However  lawful  — 
Will  be  the  victim,  sune  or  late, 

O'  passions  awful; 
Will  hirple2  o'er  the  ways  o'  life, 

Wi'  friends  scarce  ony, 
And  in  the  doura  warld's  angry  strife, 

Find  faes  full  mony. 

»  Humble  cot.  »  Walk  crazily.  8  Contrary. 


180  POEMS    Or    PROGRESS. 

The  Power  aboon,  sae  kind  and  guid, 

Who  ever  sees  us, 
Will  gie  to  men,  whene'er  they  need, 

A  John  or  Jesus. 
The  sin  o'  Adam  will  na'  cause 

His  love  to  vary, 
Nor  need  he  change  creation's  laws l 

To  form  a  Mary. 

Man's  sympathies  must  largely  share 

In  what  is  human, 
And  he  will  love  the  truth  the  mair, 

That's  born  o'  woman. 
The  De'il  himsel',  at  last,  through  love 

Will  be  converted, 
And,  reckoned  wi'  the  saunts  above, 

Leave  hell  deserted. 

The  One  who  laid  Creation's  plan 

Knows  how  to  end  it, 
Nor  need  he  ever  call  on  man 

To  help  him  mend  it. 
Then,  syne2    this  Being  is  your  friend, 

And  man  your  brither, 
Gae  on  rejoicing  to  the  end, 

Wi'  ane  anither. 

1  Referring  to  the  dogma  of  the  Immaculate  Conception.       *  Since. 


AN   ELEGY    ON    THE   DEVIL.  181 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEVIL. 

Given  under  the  inspiration  of  Robert  Burns. 

MEN  say  the  De'il  is  dead  at  last, 

And  that  his  course  is  ended, 
Which  sure  must  be  an  unco  loss 

To  those  whom  he  befriended. 
No  doubt  he  managed  to  evade 

The  sinner's  awful  sentence, 
By  that  last  trick,  so  often  played, 

Of  a  death-bed  repentance. 

Alas !  alas !  we  dinna  ken 

What  will  be  done  without  him, 
For  all  the  pious  sons  of  men 

Made  such  a  rant  about  him. 
Whene'er  they  chanced  to  gang  agley, 

Or  did  a  deed  of  evil, 
Or  winked  at  sin  upon  "the  sly," 

'Twas  all  laid  to  tne  Deevel. 


182  POEMS    OF   PKOGKESS. 

But  henceforth  they  must  bear  their  sin, 

And  come  to  the  confession, 
Without  a  single  hope  to  win 

A  pardon  for  transgression; 
Unless,  indeed,  they  try  the  plan 

Of  wise  old  Orthodoxy, 
Invented  for  puir  sinful  man, 

O'  saving  souls  by  proxy. 

But  hoolie!  what  a  grand  mistake 

Was  made  at  the  creation, 
That  God  should  e'er  a  De'il  make, 

To  peril  men's  salvation. 
He  might  have  made  puir  man,  nae  doubt, 

To  grace  a  greater  debtor, 
Had  he  but  left  the  De'il  out, 

Or  only  made  man  better. 

I  wad  na  mock  at  honest  faith, 

Or  utter  thought  profanely, 
But  then  'tis  better  for  us  baith, 

That  truth  be  spoken  plainly. 
The  great,  guid  God,  who  loves  us  a', 

Is  sure  misrepresented, 
Whene'er  men  say  he  cursed  us  a' 

In  what  he  could  prevented. 


AIT   ELEGY    ON   THE   DEVIL.  183 

And  as  for  Hornie  —  Nickie-ben  — 

Auld  cloven-foot  or  Deevil, — 
I  dinna  think  that  he  has  been, 

The  cause  o'  all  man's  evil. 
Now  that  the  puir  old  soul  is  gone, 

He  does  na'  seem  so  hateful, 
And  those  who  live,  his  loss  to  mourn, 

Should  speak  na'  word  ungrateful. 

The  clergy,  sure,  have  lost  a  friend 

Who  never  had  a  rival  — 
And  henceforth  all  their  hopes  must  end, 

O'  raising  a  revival. 
For  when  a  rout  and  rant  they  made, 

To  turn  puir  souls  frae  error, 
The  De'il  was  half  their  stock  in  trade, 

To  fill  men's  hearts  wi'  terror. 

The  politicians  might  as  weel 

Gie  o'er  each  vain  endeavor  — 
What  unco  sorrow  must  they  feel, 

Now  he  is  gone  forever! 
In  all  their  dealings,  hand  in  hand, 

They  went  with  him  thegither, 
They  executed  what  he  planned, 

And  each  helped  on  the  ither. 


184  POEMS    OP    PROGRESS. 

And  then  the  long-faced,  praying  saints, 

Who  worshiped  God  on  Sunday, 
And  set  aside  their  pious  feints, 

To  serve  the  De'il  on  Monday  — 
They  evermore,  with  empty  word, 

Professed  their  hate  of  evil ; 
But  while  they  cried  "  Guid  Lord !    Guid  Lord," 

They  said  aside,  "Guid  Devil!" 

We  dinna  ken  what  caused  his  death, 

Or  ended  his  probation, 
Whether  it  was  that  he  lacked  breath, 

Or  lacked  appreciation. 
Perhaps  the  "  origin  o'  Sin  " 

Has  proved  too  tough  a  question ; 
He  took  it  for  his  meat  within, 

And  died  o'  indigestion. 

Farewell!  farewell!  auld  Nickie-ben; 

We  trust  ye  are  forgiven, 
For  doubtless  ye  made  haste  to  men',1 

And  make  your  peace  wi'  heaven. 
We  leave  your  burial,  guid  or  bad, 

To  Truth,  as  undertaker, 
And  your  puir  soul,  such  as  ye  had, 

Commend  unto  its  Maker. 

»  Mend. 


FRATERNITY.  185 


.       FRATERNITY. 

COULD  ye  but  ken,  ye  sons  o'  men, 

How  truly  ye  are  brithers, 
Ye'd  make  guid  speed  to  stand  agreed, 

Tho'  born  o'  various  mithers. 
Ane  common  breath,  ane  common  death, 

Ane  hame  in  Heaven  above  ye  — 
Ye  are  the  fruit  frae  one  great  root 

In  the  guid  God  who  lo'es  ye. 

All  high  and  low,  all  empty  show, 

All  envious  differences, 
Will  fade  from  sight  and  vanish  quite, 

When  men  come  to  their  senses. 
Each  living  man  works  out  the  plan 

For  which  he  was  intended, 
And  he  does  best,  who  will  na'  rest 

Until  his  work  is  ended. 

Your  neebors'  blame,  or  sinful  shame, 
Should  gie  your  soul  na'  pleasure, 

For  while  ye  judge,  wi'  cruel  grudge, 
You  fill  your  ain  sad  measure. 


186  POEMS   OF   PROGRESS. 

The  De'il  himsel'  could  scarcely  tell 
Which  o'  ye  was  the  better; 

He  wad  be  laith  to  leave  ye  baith, 
While  either  was  his  debtor. 

Here  in  life's  school  wi'  pain  and  dool,1 

You  get  your  education, 
While  mony  a  trip  and  sinful  slip 

Helps  on  the  soul's  salvation. 
The  unco  skeigh,2  wi'  heads  full  high, 

Wha  feel  themselves  maist  holy, 
Oft  learn  through  sin  how  to  begin 

True  life  amang  the  lowly. 

Baith  you  and  I  may  gang  agley,3 

For  'tis  a  common  failin'; 
But  hauld  away!  we  need  na'  stay 

A  weepin'  and  a  wailin'. 
The  God  aboon  cares  not  how  soon 

We  leave  our  sins  behind  us; 
He  does  not  hate  us  in  that  state, 

Nor  set  the  De'il  to  mind  us. 

And  as  for  Hell,  o'  which  men  tell, 

I'm  sure  o'  the  opinion, 
There's  na'  such  place  o'  "saving  grace" 

In  all  the  Lord's  dominion. 

*  Sorrow.  *  Very  proud.  s  Go  astray. 


FRATERNITY.  187 

And  those  who  rave,  puir  souls  to  save,          "* 

Wi'  long-faced,  pious  fleechin',1 
Will  find  far  hence,  that  common  sense 

Is  better  than  such  preachin'. 

That  which  ye  ca'  the  power  o'  law, 

Is  but  a  puir  invention ; 
It  counts  the  deed  as  evil  seed, 

But  winks  at  the  intention. 
Could  men  but  be  mair  truly  free, 

In  some  things  less  restricked, 
The  world  wad  find  the  human  kind 

"Wad  na'  be  half  sae  wicked. 

f 

The  pent-up  steed  kept  short  o'  feed 

Is  wildest  in  his  roamin'; 
And  dammed-up  streams,  wi'  angry  gleams, 

Dash  o'er  each  hindrance  foamin'. 
Therefore  (I  pray  take  what  I  say 

In  spirit,  not  in  letter) 
Mankind  should  be  like  rivers,  free  — 

The  less  they're  damned  the  better. 

You  need  na'  heed  the  grousome  creed 

"Which  tells  ye  o'  God's  anger; 
On  Nature's  page  frae  age  to  age, 

His  love  is  written  stranger. 

1  Praying. 


188  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

If       God's  providence,  in  ony  sense, 

Has  never  been  one-sided, 
And  for  the  weal  o'  chick,  or  chiel, 
He  amply  has  provided. 

The  winter's  snaw,  the  birken  shaw,1 

The  gowans  *  brightly  springing, 
The  murky  night,  the  rosy  light, 

The  laverocks3  gayly  singing, 
The  spring's  return,  the  wimplin  burn,* 

The  cushat5  fondly  mated, 
All  jojn  to  tell  how  unco  well 

God  lo'es  all  things  created. 

Then  dinna  strive  to  live  and  thrive 

Sae  selfish  and  unthinkin', 
But  firmly  stand,  and  lend  a  hand 

To  keep  the  weak  frae  sinkin'. 
'Tis  love  can  make,  for  love's  sweet  sake, 

A  trusty  fier6  in  sorrow, 
Wha  spends  his  gear7  wi'out  a  fear 

O'  what  may  be  to-morrow. 

The  preachers  say,  there's  far  awa' 

A  land  o'  milk  and  honey, 
Where  all  is  free  as  barley  brie, 

And  wi'out  price  or  money; 

1  Birchen  grove.          2  Flowers.          »  Larks.          «  Running  brootai. 
8  Dove.          « Friend.          i  Money. 


FRATERNITY.  189 

But  here  the  merit  o'  love  is  sweet, 

For  souls  in  sinful  blindness, 
And  there's  a  milk  that's  guid  for  ilk  l  — 

"The  milk  o'  human  kindness." 

The  lift  aboon2  will  welcome  sune 

The  wayworn  and  the  weary, 
And  angels  fair  will  greet  them  there, 

Sae  winsome  and  sae  cheery. 
But  while  they  stay,  make  smooth  the  way, 

Through  all  life's  wintry  weather, 
Until  ane  bield'.and  common  shield, 

Shall  hauld  ye  all  thegither. 

*  Each.          *  Heaven  above.          »  Shelter. 


190  POEMS   OF   PROGRESS. 


OWEENA. 

ONCE,  when  Death,  the  mighty  hunter, 
Bent  his  bow  and  sent  an  arrow 
Through  the  shadows  of  the  forest, 
Harming  not  the  Bear  or  Panther, 
Harming  not  the  Owl  or  Raven, 
In  the  bosom  of  Oweena, 
Fairest  of  the  Indian  maidens, 
Was  the  fatal  arrow  hidden. 

On  the  lodge  of  Massa-wam-sett 
Fell  a  deep  and  dreadful  shadow; 
He,  the  wise  and  warlike  Sachem, 
Mourned  in  silence  for  Oweena; 
But  the  mother,  Nah-me-o-ka, 
Like  a  tall  pine  in  the  tempest, 
Tossed  her  arms  in  wildest  anguish, 
Pouring  forth  her  lamentation : 


OWEENA.  191 

"  Neen  wo-ma-su !     Neen  wo-ma-su ! ' 

0  my  darling!  my  Oweena! 
Mat-ta-neen  won-ka-met  na-men  —  * 

I  shall  never  see  thee  more! 

"  Ho-bo-moco,  evil  Spirit, 
Hiding  darkly  in  the  forest, 
Making  shadow  in  the  sunshine, 
You  have  stolen  her  away. 

"She  was  like  the  flowers  in  springtime, 
She  was  like  the  singing  waters, 
She  was  like  the  summer  sunshine, 
Neen  wo-ma-su !     She  is  dead ! 

"Hear  me!     Hear  me,  O  Great  Spirit! 

1  will  bring  thee  Bear  and  Bison, 

I  will  bring  thee  Beads  and  Wampum; 
Wilt  thou  give  her  back  to  me? 

"Neen  wo-ma-su!     N"een  wo-ma-su! 
O  my  darling!     My  Oweena! 
Mat-ta-neen  won-ka-met  na-men, 
I  shall  never  see  thee  more!" 


1  My  darling. 

*  I  shall  never  see  thee  more. 


192  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

Ceaseless  was  her  plaintive  wailing, 
Even  when  the  fair  Oweena 
Slept  beneath  the  pine  trees'  shadow, 
In  the  green  and  silent  forest, 
Where  the  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 
Where  the  roses  of  the  summer, 
And  the  vines,  with  slender  fingers, 
Clasped  their  loving  hands  above  her. 

From  the  lodge  of  Massa-wam-sett, 
While  the  brave  old  chieftain  slumbered, 
In  the  silence  of  the  midnight, 
To  the  grave  stole  Nah-me-o-ka, 
Pouring  forth  her  lamentations  : 
"Neen  wo-ma-su !     Neen  wo-ma-su! 
Mat-ta-neen  won-ka-met  na-men, 
I  shall  never  see  thee  more!" 

Once,  the  tempest,  on  its  wai'-path, 
Painted  all  the  sky  with  blackness, 
Sped  the  arrows  of  the  lightning, 
And  the  war-whoop  of  the  thunder, 
Made  the  mighty  forest  tremble. 
But  it  moved  not  Nah-me-o-ka, 
Only  moaning,  "Neen  wo-ma-su! 
I  shall  never  see  thee  more ! " 


OWEENA.  193 

All  the  forest  leaves  were  weeping, 
And  the  black  wings  of  the  darkness, 
Brooding  over  Nah-me-o-ka, 
Filled  her  with  a  chilling  shudder: 
And  the  thunder  seemed  to  mutter 
With  a  cruel  exultation, 
"You  shall  never  see  her  more." 
But  thereafter  came  a  whisper — 

"I  am  with  you,  O  my  mother! 
For  I  cannot  turn  my  footsteps 
To  the  land  of  the  Great  Spirit, 
While  I  hear  your  mournful  wailing, 
Calling,  calling  me  again. 

"In  the  hunting-grounds  beyond  me 
There  are  sunshine,  peace  and  plenty, 
But  I  wander,  sad  and  lonely, 
In  the  land  of  death  and  darkness, 
Listening  only  to  your  cry. 

"Let  me  go  to  the  Great  Spirit, 
To  the  lodge  of  peace  and  plenty, 
To  the  land  of  summer  sunshine, 
That  with  life  and  strength  and  gladness, 
I  may  meet  you  yet  again." 
13 


194  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

Then  the  soft  hand  of  Oweena 
Gently  lifted  Nah-me-o-ka, 
Who  with  wondering  eyes  beheld  her, 
Like  a  light  amid  the  darkness. 
And  Oweena  safely  led  her 
Through  the  tempest  and  the  midnight, 
To  the  lodge  of  Massa-wam-sett, 
Kissed  her  tenderly  —  and  vanished. 

From  that  time  did  Nah-me-o-ka 
Dry  her  tears,  and  cease  her  moaning, 
For  she  said,  "I  will  not  keep  her 
From  the  land  of  summer  sunshine, 
From  the  home  of  peace  and  plenty, 
From  the  lodge  of  the  Great  Spirit. 
Neen  wo-ma-su!     Neen  wo-ma-su! 
In  the  land  of  the  Hereafter 
I  shall  meet  her  yet  again." 


GONE  IS  GONE,  AND  DEAD  IS  DEAD.     195 


GONE  IS  GONE,  AND  DEAD  IS  DEAD. 

"On  returning-  to  the  inn,  he  found  there  a  wandering  minstrel  — 
a  woman  —  singing1,  and  accompanying  her  voice  with  the  music  of  a 
harp.  The  burden  of  her  song  was,  '  Gone  is  gone,  and  dead  is 
dead.'  The  utter  hopelessness  of  these  words  filled  his  soul  with 
anguish.  '  O,'  he  exclaimed,  '  thou  loved  and  lost  one !  patient  and 
long-suffering,  would  that  I  could  call  thee  back  again,  not  to  forgive 
me  —  O,  no!  —  but  rather  that  I  might  have  the  consolation  of  show 
ing  tlier,  by  my  repentance,  how  differently  I  would  conduct  towards 
thee  nr"v."— JEAN  PAUL  RICHTER. 

"  GONE  is  gone,  and  dead  is  dead ! " 
Words  to  hopeless  sorrow  wed  — 
Words  from  deepest  anguish  wrung, 
Which  a  lonely  wand'rer  sung, 
While  her  harp  prolonged  the  strain, 
Like  a  spirit's  cry  of  pain 
When  all  hope  with  life  is  fled  : 
"Gone  is  gone,  and  dead  is  dead." 

Mournful  singer!  hearts  unknown 
Thrill  responsive  to  that  tone; 
By  a  common  weal  and  woe, 
Kindred  sorrows  all  must  know. 


196  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

Lips  all  tremulous  with  pain 
Oft  repeat  that  sad  refrain 
When  the  fatal  shaft  is  sped  — 
"Gone  is  gone,  and  dead  is  dead." 

Pain  and  death  are  everywhere  — 
In  the  earth,  and  sea,  and  air; 
And  the  sunshine's  golden  glance, 
And  the  heaven's  serene  expanse, 
With  a  silence  calm  and  high, 
Seem  to  mock  that  mournful  cry 
Wrung  from  hearts  by  hope  unfed  — 
"Gone  is  gone,  and  dead  is  dead." 

O,  ye  sorrowing  ones,  arise; 
Wipe  the  tear-drops  from  your  eyes; 
Lift  your  faces  to  the  light; 
Read  Death's  mystery  aright. 
Life  unfolds  from  life  within, 
And  with  death  does  life  begin. 
Of  the  soul  can  ne'er  be  said, 
"Gone  is  gone,  and  dead  is  dead." 

As  the  stars,  which,  one  by  one, 
Lit  their  torches  at  the  sun, 
And  across  ethereal  space 
Swept  each  to  its  destined  place, 


GONE  IS  GONE,  AND  DEAD  IS  DEAD.     197 

So  the  soul's  Promethean  fire, 
Kindled  never  to  expire, 
On  its  course  immortal  sped, 
Is  not  gone,  and  is  not  dead. 

By  a  Power  to  thought  unknown, 
Love  shall  ever  seek  its  own. 
Sundered  not  by  time  or  space, 
With  no  distant  dwelling-place, 
Soul  shall  answer  unto  soul, 
As  the  needle  to  the  pole. 
Leaving  grief's  lament  unsaid, 
"Gone  is  gone,  and  dead  is  dead." 

Evermore  Love's  quickening  breath 
Calls  the  living  soul  from  death ; 
And  the  resurrection's  power 
Comes  to  every  dying  hour. 
"When  the  soul,  with  vision  clear, 
Learns  that  Heaven  is  always  near, 
Never  more  shall  it  be  said, 
"Gone  is  gone,  and  dead  is  dead." 


198  POEMS   OF   PKOGKESS. 


THE   SPIRIT  TEACHER. 

FAB  in  the  land  of  Love  and  Light, 
Where  Death's  cold  touch  can  never  blight 
The  buds  most  precious  to  the  sight  — 

The  Power  Divine 
Hath  given  to  my  fostering  care, 
A  youthful  band  of  spirits  fair. 

Thus  are  they  mine. 

Sweet  blossoms  from  the  earthly  spring  — 
Weak  fledglings  with  the  untried  wing  — 
Dear  lambs — such  as  the  angels  bring, 

With  tenderest  love, 
From  earthly  storms  and  tempests  cold, 
Safe  to  the  warm  and  sheltering  fold, 

In  heaven  above. 

O,  gentle  mothers  of  the  earth, 

Who  gave  these  precious  spirits  birth, 

Your  homes  have  lost  their  sounds  of  mirth 


THE    SPIRIT    TEACHER.  199 

And  childish  glee ; 

But  not  in  Death's  embrace  they  sleep  — 
Nay,  gentle  mothers,  cease  to  weep  — 

They  dwell  with  me. 

There,  'mid  the  amaranthine  bowers, 
Through  all  the  long,  bright,  gladsome  hours, 
Your  loved  ones  tend  their  birds  and  flowers, 

And  often  come 

With  gifts  of  love  and  garlands  bright, 
To  gladden,  with  their  forms  of  light, 

Your  earthly  home. 

Their  gentle  lips  to  yours  are  pressed, 
Their  heads  are  pillowed  on  your  breast, 
And  in  your  loving  arms  they  rest, 

For  they  are  given 
By  Him  whose  ways  are  ever  kind, 
As  precious  links  of  love,  to  bind 

Your  souls  to  heaven. 

O,  could  the  sunshine  of  the  heart 
Dispel  the  blinding  tears  that  start, 
And  all  your  doubts  and  fears  depart  — 

Those  forms,  concealed 
Like  blossoms  'neath  the  shades  of  night, 
Before  your  spirit's  quickening  sight 

Would  stand  revealed. 


200  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

They  still  are  yours,  and  yet  are  mine; 

I  teach  them  of  the  Life  Divine, 

And  lead  them  to  the  truth's  pure  shrine, 

That  evermore, 

Through  heavenly  wisdom  understood, 
The  True,  the  Beautiful,  the  Good, 

They  may  adore. 

They  know  no  griefs,  they  shed  no  tears, 
For  perfect  love  dispels  their  fears, 
And  through  their  life's  eternal  years, 

They  haste  to -meet 
The  humblest  duty  of  the  way, 
And  every  call  of  love  obey 

With  willing  feet. 

O,  ye  who  tears  of  anguish  shed 

Above  some  empty  cradle-bed, 

Where  once  reposed  a  precious  head  — 

Be  reconciled. 

For  yet  your  longing  eyes  shall  see, 
In  heaven's  broad  sunshine,  glad  and  free, 

Your  spirit  child. 

They  are  all  there  —  they  are  all  there  — 
The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  fair; 
They  know  no  want,  they  feel  no  care. 


THE    SPIRIT    TEACHER.  201 

They  are  not  dead; 
But  quickened  in  their  spirit's  powers, 
Life  crowns  with  her  immortal  flowers 

Each  shining  head. 

Some  are  no  longer  weak  and  small, 
But  fair,  and  beautiful,  and  tall; 
And  yet  I  call  them  children  all, 

For  they  believe, 

With  child-like  faith,  the  truths  I  teach, 
And  render  back  in  simple  speech 

What  they  receive. 

They  are  more  precious  in  my  sight 
Than  all  the  radiant  gems  of  light 
That  on  the  royal  brow  of  night 

Arise  and  shine ; 

And  through  a  pure  maternal  love, 
Known  even  in  the  world  above, 

I  call  them  mine. 

O,  ask  them  not  for  earth  again, 
The  bitter  cup  of  grief  to  drain, 
To  tread  in  sorrow  and  in  pain 

Life's  thorny  track. 

Love's  rainbow  arch  to  heaven  they  crossed; 
Gone,  but  not  dead  —  unseen,  not  lost  — 

Call  them  not  back. 


202  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

O,  gentle  mothers,  cease  to  weep ; 
The  faithful  shepherd  of  the  sheep 
The  tender  little  lambs  will  keep. 

'Mid  shadows  dim, 
Lean  calmly  on  the  Father's  breast- 
"He  giveth  his  beloved  rest"  — 

Trust  ye  in  him. 


LITTLE    NELL.  203 


LITTLE    NELL. 

A   POEM   FOR   THE    CHILDREN    OF    THE    LYCEUM. 

CLEAR  the  wintry  sky  was  glowing, 
Sharp  and  loud  the  wind  was  blowing, 
Icy  cold  the  stream  was  flowing 

In  the  little  woodland  dell, 
When,  with  pitcher  clasped  so  tightly, 
Tripping  cheerfully  and  lightly, 
With  her  soft  eyes  smiling  brightly, 

To  the  spring  came  little  Nell. 

Late  to  bed  and  early  rising, 
With  a  patience  quite  surprising, 
And  without  the  least  advising, 

Faithful  as  a  little  dove  — 
Thus  she  toiled  for  her  sick  mother, 
For,  poor  child !  there  was  none  other, 
Not  a  sister  or  a  brother, 

Who  could  share  her  work  of  love. 


204  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

As  she  stooped  to  dip  the  water, 
Straight  the  cruel  north  wind  caught  her, 
Down  upon  the  ground  it  brought  her, 

And  the  little  pitcher  fell. 
But  with  merry  laugh  upspringing, 
And  again  the  pitcher  bringing, 
As  she  filled  it,  gayly  singing, 

Homeward  hastened  little  Nell. 

"  Ho ! "  cried  Jack  Frost,  "  if  I  catch  her, 
Such  cold  feet  and  hands  I'll  fetch  her, 
I  will  make  her  drop  her  pitcher  — 

Little  good-for-nothing  thing! 
Let  me  only  once  get  at  her, 
It  will  be  no  trifling  matter! 
I  will  make  her  teeth  to  chatter 

So,  she  will  not  dare  to  sing." 

"  Holy  angels,  guard  us  ever, 
God  himself  forsakes  us  never," 
Sung  the  maiden,  blithe  as  ever  — 

"We  are  his  forevermore." 
Then  the  wild  wind  beating  o'er  her, 
Rudely  on  her  way  it  bore  her, 
Heaping  up  the  snow  before  her, 

Till  she  reached  the  cottage  door. 


LITTLE    NELL.  205 

Scarcely  had  her  mother  missed  her. 
Hastening  quickly  to  assist  her, 
Tenderly  she  stooped  and  kissed  her, 

And  the  poor,  sick  mother  smiled. 
Closely  to  her  heart  she  pressed  her, 
Looking  up  to  heaven  she  blessed  her, 
And  before  her  God,  confessed  her 

As  His  gift  —  that  precious  child. 

Now,  one  little  word  of  teaching  — 
Though  I  am  not  fond  of  preaching  — 
Yet  most  earnestly  beseeching, 

I  would  say  to  children  small  — 
Learn  that  duties,  howe'er  lowly, 
Done  in  love,  will  make  life  holy, 
And  will  bring,  though  ofttimes  slowly, 

Sure  and  sweet  reward  to  all. 


206  POEMS   OF   PROGRESS. 


THE   SOUL'S    DESTINY. 

UP  o'er  the  shining  ways  of  light, 

That  flash  across  the  starry  skies, 
Up  to  Creation's  loftiest  hight, 

The  pathway  of  the  spirit  lies. 
Where  countless  constellations  gleam, 

The  soul  triumphant  shall  ascend, 
Shall  drink  of  Life's  eternal  stream, 

And  with  new  forms  of  being  blend. 

No  boundless  solitude  of  space 

Shall  fill  man's  conscious  soul  with  awe, 
But  everywhere  his  eye  shall  trace 

The  beauty  of  eternal  law. 
Sweet  music  from  celestial  isles 

Shall  float  across  the  azure  seas, 
And  flowers,  where  endless  summer  smiles, 

Shall  waft  their  perfumes  on  the  breeze. 

No  empty  void,  no  rayless  night, 

No  wintry  waves  by  tempests  tossed, 

No  treasures  ravished  from  the  sight, 
No  blighted  hopes,  no  blessing  lost; 


THE    SOUL'S   DESTINY.  207 

But  all  that  was,  or  yet  shall  be, 
Through  endless  transformations  led, 

Shall  know,  through  Life's  sublime  decree, 
A  resurrection  from  the  dead. 

And  he  who,  through  the  lapse  of  years, 

With  aching  heart  and  weary  feet, 
Had  sought,  from  gloomy  doubts  and  fears, 

A  refuge  and  a  sure  retreat  — 
Shall  find  at  last  an  inner  shrine, 

Secure  from  superstition's  ban, 
Where  he  shall  learn  the  truth  divine, 

That  God  dwells  evermore  with  man. 

Throughout  the  boundless  All  in  All, 

Life  lengthens  —  an  unbroken  chain  — 
And  He  in  whom  we  stand  or  fall, 

Feels  all  our  pleasure  and  our  pain. 
O  Infinite!     O  Holy  Heart! 

Give  us  but  patience  to  endure, 
Until  we  know  thee  as  thou  art, 

And  feel  our  lives  in  thee  made  sure. 


208  POEMS    OF   PKOGEESS. 


GUARDIAN   ANGELS. 

HOLY  ministers  of  light ! 
Hidden  from  our  mortal  sight, 
But  whose  presence  can  impart 
Peace  and  comfort  to  the  heart, 
When  we  weep,  or  when  we  pray, 
When  we  falter  in  the  way, 
Or  our  hearts  grow  faint  with  fear, 
Let  us  feel  your  presence  near. 

Wandering  over  ways  untrod, 
Doubting  self  and  doubting  God, 
Oft  we  miss  the  shining  mark, 
Oft  we  stumble  in  the  dark. 
Holy,  holy  life  above! 
Full  of  peace  and  perfect  love, 
Some  sweet  rays  of  summer  shed 
On  the  wintry  ways  we  tread. 

Blessed  angels!  ye  who  heed 
All  our  striving,  all  our  need, 


GUARDIAN  ANGELS.  209 

When  oui*  eyes  with  weeping  ache, 
When  our  hearts  in  silence  break, 
When  the  cross  is  hard  to  bear, 
When  we  fail  to  do  and  dare, 
Make  our  wounded  spirits  feel 
All  your  power  to  bless  and  heal. 

When  we  gaze  on  new-made  graves, 
When  the  love  the  spirit  craves, 
Pure  and  saintly,  like  a  star, 
Shines  upon  us  from  afar, 
Lead  iis  upward  to  that  light, 
Till  our  faith  is  changed  to  sight, 
Till  we  learn  to  murmur  not, 
And  with  patience  bear  our  lot. 

By  our  human  weal  and  woe, 
By  our  life  of  toil  below, 
By  our  sorrow  and  our  pain, 
By  our  hope  of  heavenly  gain, 
By  these  cherished  forms  of  clay, 
Fading  from  our  sight  away, 
Do  we  plead  for  light,  more  light, 
From  that  world  beyond  our  sight. 

Never,  till  our  hearts  are  dust, 
Till  our  souls  shall  cease  to  trust, 
14 


210  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

Till  our  love  becomes  a  lie, 

And  our  aspirations  die, 

Shall  we  cease  with  hope,  to  gaze 

On  that  veil's  mysterious  haze, 

Or  the  presence  to  implore 

Of  the  loved  ones  gone  before. 

Holy  spirit!  quickening  all, 
On  thy  boundless  love  we  call; 
Send  thy  messengers  of  light, 
To  unseal  our  inward  sight; 
Lift  us  from  our  low  estate, 
Make  us  truly  wise  and  great, 
That  our  lives,  through  love,  may  be 
Full  of  peace  and  rest  in  Thee. 


NEARER    TO    THEE.  211 


NEARER  TO  THEE. 

The  following-   Poem  was  given  at  the  conclusion  of  a  lecture  on 
"The  Present  Condition  of  Theodore  Parker  in  Spirit  Life  " 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 
Nearer  to  Thee.1 

YES,  I  am  nearer  Thee !   for  flesh  and  sense 
Have  been  exchanged  for  an  eternal  youth; 

My  spirit  hath  been  born  anew,  and  hence 
I  worship  Thee  "in  spirit  and  in  truth." 

Yes,  I  am  nearer  Thee !     Though  still  unseen, 
Thy  presence  fills  my  life's  diviner  part. 

Now  that  no  earthly  shadows  intervene, 
I  feel  a  deeper  sense  of  wliat  Thou  art. 

Yes,  I  am  nearer  Thee !     Thy  boundless  love 
Fills  all  ray  being  with  a  rich  increase, 

And  soft  descending,  like  a  heavenly  dove, 
I  feel  the  benediction  of  Thy  peace. 

1  The  favorite  hymn  of  Theodore  Parker. 


212  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

Yes,  I  am  nearer  Thee!    All  that  I  sought 
Of  Truth,  or  Wisdom,  or  Eternal  Right, 

Is  clearly  present  to  my  inmost  thought, 
Like  the  uprising  of  a  glorious  light. 

Yes,  I  am  nearer  Thee !     O,  calm  and  still, 
And  beautiful  and  blest  beyond  degree, 

Is  this  surrender  of  my  finite  will  — 
Is  this  absorption  of  my  soul  in  Thee. 

"  O  Thou !  whom  men  call  God  and  know  no 
more  !" 

When  they  shall  leave  the  worship  of  the  Past, 
And  learn  to  love  Thee  rather  than  adore, 

All  souls  shall  draw  thus  near  to  Thee  at  last. 


THE    SACKAMENT.  213 


THE   SACRAMENT. 

THE  aged  pastor  broke  the  bread  — 

With  trembling  hands  lie  poured  the  wine 
"Eat  —  drink"  —  in  earnest  tones  he  said  — 

"  These  emblems  of  a  life  divine  — 
His  body  broken  for  your  sins; 

His  blood  for  your  salvation  shed ; 
The  priceless  sacrifice  that  wins 

Life  and  redemption  from  the  dead. 

"See  how  with  tender  love  he  stands, 

And  calls  you  to  his  faithful  heart; 
Lo!  from  his  wounded  side  and  hands 

Again  the  crimson  life-drops  start. 
O  sinner!  wherefore  will  you  stay, 

Regardless  of  your  lost  estate? 
Come  at  your  Saviour's  call  to-day, 

Before,  alas!  it  is  too  late." 

Forth  from  his  lonely  seat  apart, 
A  dark-browed,  Ethiopian  came, 

As  if  new  life  had  stirred  the  heart 
That  beat  within  his  manly  frame. 


214  POEMS    OF   PROGKESS. 

"  O,  give  to  me,"  he  meekly  said, 
"  A  portion  of  that  heavenly  food ; 

I  too  would  eat  the  living  bread, 

And  find  salvation  through  his  blood." 

The  Pastor  turned  with  wondering  eyes ; 

But  when  he  saw  the  dusky  brow, 
He  answered,  with  a  quick  surprise, 

"Ho!  bold  intruder!     Who  art  thou? 
The  master's  table  is  not  free 

To  give  the  low-born  servant  place  — 
Such  privilege  can  only  be 

For  his  accepted  sons  of  grace." 

Upon  the  dusky  brow  there  glowed 

A  flush  that  was  not  wrath  nor  pride, 
As  forward  he  majestic  strode, 

And  stood  close  by  the  altar-side. 
The  broken  bread  his  left  hand  spurned 

With  sudden  movement  to  the  floor, 
While  with  his  right  he  quickly  turned 

The  consecrated  chalice  o'er. 

One  instant,  for  the  tempest-cloud 
To  gather  on  each  pallid  face. 

And  then  uprose  the  angry  crowd 
To  thrust  him  from  the  sacred  place. 


THE    SACRAMENT.  215 

With  conscious  might  he  raised  his  hand  — 

A  being  of  resistless  will  — 
And  uttered  the  sublime  command 

That  hushed  the  tempest  —  "Peace,  be  still!" 

The  waves  of  wrath  and  human  pride 

Rolled  back,  without  the  power  to  harm, 
The  angry  murmurs  surged  and  died, 

And  lo!  there  was  a  breathless  calm. 
The  dusky  brow  to  dazzling  white 

Had  in  one  fleeting  instant  turned, 
And  round  his  head  a  halo  bright 

Of  heaven's  resplendent  glory  burned. 

"I  do  reject,"  he  calmly  said, 

"  These  outward  forms  —  this  bread,  this  wine : 
Lo!  at  my  table  all  are  fed, 

Made  welcome  by  a  love  divine. 
The  high,  the  low,  the  rich,  the  poor, 

The  black,  the  white,  the  bond,  the  free, 
The  sinful  soul,  the  heart  impure  — 

Forbid  them  not  to  come  to  me. 

"Too  long,  too  long  have  faithless  creeds 
Shut  out  the  sunshine  from  above, 

While  human  hearts,  with  human  needs, 
Have  perished  from  the  lack  of  love. 


216  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

O,  break  for  them  truth's  living  bread; 

Let  love,  like  wine,  unhindered  flow; 
Thus  would  I  have  the  hungry  fed, 

And  let  these  outward  emblems  go." 

Then  from  the  altar-side  there  rose 

A  cloud  with  matchless  glory  bright, 
As  when,  at  evening's  calm  repose, 

The  sun  withdraws  his  radiant  light. 
But  though  so  far  removed  from  all, 

He  seemed  in  presence  to  depart, 
The  seed  of  living  truth  let  fall 

Took  root  in  many  a  thoughtful  heart. 


THE    GOOD    TIME    NOW.  217 


THE  GOOD  TIME  NOW. 

THE  world  is  strong  with  a  mighty  hope 

Of  a  good  time  yet  to  be, 
And  carefully  casts  the  horoscope 

Of  her  future  destiny; 
And  poet,  and  prophet,  and  priest,  and  sage, 

Are  watching,  with  anxious  eyes, 
To  see  the  light  of  that  promised  age 

On  the  waiting  world  arise. 
O,  weary  and  long  seems  that  time  to  some, 

Who  under  Life's  burdens  bow, 
For  while  they  wait  for  that  time  to  come, 

They  forget  'tis  a  good  time  now. 

Yes,  a  good  time  now  —  for  we  cannot  say 

What  the  morrow  will  bring  to  view; 
But  we're  always  sure  of  the  time  to-day, 

And  the  course  we  must  pursue; 
And  no  better  time  is  ever  sought, 

By  a  brave  heart,  under  the  sun, 
Than  the  present  hour,  with  its  noblest  thought, 

And  the  duties  to  be  done. 


218  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

'Tis  enough  for  the  earnest  soul  to  see 
There  is  work  to  be  done,  and  how, 

For  he  knows  that  the  good  time  yet  to  be, 
Depends  on  the  good  time  now. 

There  is  never  a  broken  link  in  the  chain, 

And  never  a  careless  flaw, 
For  cause  and  effect,  and  loss  and  gain, 

Are  true  to  a  changeless  law. 
Now  is  the  time  to  sow  the  seed 

For  the  harvest  of  future  years, 
JVow  is  the  time  for  a  noble  deed, 

While  the  need  for  the  work  appears. 
You  must  earn  the  bread  of  your  liberty 

By  toil  and  the  sweat  of  your  brow, 
And  hasten  the  good  time  yet  to  be, 

By  improving  the  good  time  now. 

'Tis  as  bright  a  sun  that  shines  to-day 

As  will  shine  in  the  coming  time; 
And  Truth  has  as  weighty  a  word  to  say, 

Through  her  oracles  sublime. 
There  are  voices  in  earth,  and  air,  and  sky, 

That  tell  of  the  good  time  here, 
And  visions  that  come  to  Faith's  clear  eye, 

The  weary  in  heart  to  cheer. 


THE    GOOD    TIME    NOW.  219 

The  glorious  fruit  on  Life's  goodly  tree 

Is  ripening  on  every  bough, 
And  the  wise  in  spirit  rejoice  to  see 

The  light  of  the  good  time  now. 

The  world  rests  not,  with  a  careless  ease, 

On  the  wisdom  of  the  past  — 
From  Moses,  and  Plato,  and  Socrates, 

It  is  onward  advancing  fast; 
And  the  words  of  Jesus,  and  John,  and  Paul, 

Stand  out  from  the  lettered  page, 
And  the  living  present  contains  them  all, 

In  the  spirit  that  moves  the  age. 
Great,  earnest  souls,  through  the  Truth  made  free, 

No  longer  in  blindness  bow, 
And  the  good  time  coming,  the  yet  to  be, 

Has  begun  with  the  good  time  now. 

Then  up!  nor  wait  for  the  promised  hour, 

For  the  good  time  now  is  best, 
And  the  soul  that  uses  its  gift  of  power 

Shall  be  in  the  present  blest. 
Whatever  the  future  may  have  in  store, 

With  a  will  there  is  ever  a  way ; 
And  none  need  burden  the  soul  with  more 

Than  the  duties  of  to-day. 


220  POEMS    OF    PEOGEESS. 

Then  up!  with  a  spirit  brave  and  free, 
And  put  the  hand  to  the  plow, 

Nor  wait  for  the  good  time  yet  to  be, 
But  work  in  the  good  time  now. 


LIFE'S  MYSTERIES.  221 


LIFE'S  MYSTERIES. 

To  the  soul  that  is  gifted  with  seeing 
The  secrets  and  sources  of  being, 

A  mystical  meaning  appears 
For  the  hearts  that  in  silence  are  broken, 
For  the  words  of  affection  unspoken, 

For  sorrow,  bereavement,  and  tears. 

There  are  souls  that  with  genius  are  gifted, 
On  crosses  of  sorrow  uplifted, 

Who  find  their  salvation  through  pain; 
There  are  deeds  of  the  brave  unrecorded, 
And  the  toil  of  warm  hands  unrewarded, 

Whose  loss  is  an  infinite  gain. 

There  are  spirits  who  pray  that  no  morrow 
May  dawn  on  the  depths  of  their  sorrow ; 

But  the  morrow  brings  patience  and  peace. 
And  the  faithful,  who  often  with  weeping 


222  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

Have  sown  the  good  seed  in  their  keeping, 
Have  garnered  a  blessed  increase. 

There  are  lives  that  are  matchless  in  beauty, 
Through  the  faithful  performance  of  duty, 

Whose  labors  of  love  are  unknown. 
There  are  spirits  who  languish  in  prison, 
Whose  light  on  the  world  has  not  risen, 

And  yet  they  are  never  alone. 

The  poor,  the  oppressed,  and  the  lowly, 
The  selfish,  the  weak,  and  the  holy, 

Have  each  in  life's  drama  a  part. 
While  the  wants  and  the  woes  that  o'ercame 

them, 
With  the  lives  of  the  righteous  who  blame  them, 

Are  known  to  the  Infinite  Heart. 

O,  where  is  the  angel  recorder! 

And  where  is  the  watchman  and  warder, 

That  is  charged  with  the  keeping  of  souls  ? 
And  what  is  the  mystical  meaning, 
Which  the  thoughtful  in  spirit  are  gleaning 

From  the  Force  that  all  Nature  controls? 

O,  not  where  the  sun-fires  are  burning, 
And  not  where  the  planets  are  turning 


LIFE'S  MYSTERIES.  223 

Their  faces  to  welcome  the  light, 
Shall  we  seek  for  the  Centre  of  Being, 
And  learn  of  the  Wisdom  All-seeing, 

Or  climb  to  life's  infinite  hight. 

But  deep  as  love's  fathomless  ocean, 
In  a  spirit  of  lowly  devotion, 

Should  we  patiently  strive  to  ascend; 
Not  reckless,  unfeeling,  and  stoic, 
But  with  courage  and  calmness  heroic, 

Unswerving  and  true  to  the  end. 

"With  shoulders  that  bow  to  life's  crosses, 
"With  hearts  that  faint  not  at  their  losses, 

With  spirits  that  triumph  o'er  pain, — 
At  length  to  such  souls  shall  be  given 
The  peaceful  possession  of  heaven, 

And  the  life  that  is  infinite  gain. 

Then,  judged  by  the  complex  relation 
Of  each  to  the  Soul  of  Creation, 

Distinctions  of  merit  must  fall. 
There  is  good  for  the  Saint  and  the  Sinner, 
There  is  gain  for  the  loser  or  winner, 

And  a  just  compensation  for  all. 


224  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

For  the  Infinite  Life  is  ascending, 
And  all  things  are  with  it  uptending, 

AAvay  from  all  evil  and  strife. 
To  man  is  the  toil  of  endeavor, 
But  unto  that  Being,  forever, 

The  peace  and  perfection  of  life. 


A    WOODLAND     IDYL.  225 


A  WOODLAND  IDYL. 

OLD  Brown  Brier  lived  in  the  depths  of  a  wood, 

Close  down  by  a  sassafras  tree; 
Jealous,  and  selfish,  and  hostile  to  all, 

A  surly  old  fellow  was  he. 
He  hated  his  neighbor,  the  sassafras-tree, 

When  her  leaves  grew  green  in  the  spring, 
And  he  almost  perished  with  envy  and  spite, 

When  he  heard  an  oriole  sing. 
But  one  thing  saved  him,  and  only  one, 

From  a  life  of  sorrow  and  woe ; 
He  longed  for  a  change  in  his  hermit  life, 

And  a  power  in  himself  to  grow. 

A  fair  young  child  to  the  green-wood  came, 

With  eyes  like  the  gentian  blue ; 
Her  hair  was  like  threads  of  an  amber  flame, 

And  her  cheek  wore  the  sunset  hue. 
Her  step  was  light  as  the  bounding  roe, 

And  her  voice  like  a  silver  bell; 
She  charmed  the  birds  from  their  green  retreats, 

And  the  squirrel  from  his  cell. 
15 


226  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

She  sang  of  the  love,  of  the  free,  great  love. 

Which  the  Father  has  for  all, 
From  the  worlds  of  light,  in  the  heavens  above, 

To  the  flowers  and  the  insects  small. 

"Ah!"  sighed  the  Brier,  the  brown  old  Brier, 

"  What  has  he  done  for  me  ? " 
Does  he  give  me  leaves  in  the  early  spring, 

Or  flowers  like  the  locust  tree?" 

"  Our  God  is  just,  and  our  God  is  true," 

Still  warbled  the  happy  child; 
"He  sendeth  his  sunshine  and  silver  dew 

To  the  desert  and  lonely  wild; 
And  the  secret  force  in  the  tempest  cloud 

To  the  smallest  flower  is  given, 
That  all,  by  his  wisdom  and  strength  endowed, 

May  live  for  the  Lord  of  Heaven." 

She  passed.     The  old  Brier  was  lost  in  thought. 

"And  is  it,  then,  really  so? 
Can  this  wondrous  change  by  myself  be  wrought? 

Have  I  power  in  myself  to  grow  ? " 
Then  up  from  the  gray  old  mother  Earth 

Rich  juices  he  quickly  drew, 
Till  the  sluices  and  channels  small  were  filled 

With  the  fresh  sap  trickling  through. 


A    WOODLAXD     IDYL.  227 

He  called  to  the  winds,  to  the  warm  spring  winds, 

As  they  played  with  the  flowers  near  by, 
And  he  prayed  the  sunshine,  with  golden  wings, 

On  his  cold,  damp  roots  to  lie. 
The  spring  winds  blew,  and  the  sunshine  came, 

And  the  Brier  grew  fresh  and  fair, 
Till  his  blossoms,  like  wreaths  of  incense  cups, 

With  their  fragrance  filled  the  air. 

Again  the  child  to  the  green-wood  came; 

But  her  step  was  sad  and  slow ; 
Her  eye  beamed  not  with  its  love-lit  flame, 

And  her  voice  was  soft  and  low. 

i 
"I  am  changed,"  she  said;  "O  ye  birds  and  flowers! 

With  a  yearning  heart  I  weep 
To  lay  me  down  in  these  quiet  bowers, 

In  a  long,  untroubled  sleep. 
For  O,  my  heart  like  a  flower  is  crushed, 

And  I  cling  to  the  world  no  more; 
The  sacred  fount  from  its  urn  hath  gushed, 

And  the  joy  of  my  life  is  o'er." 

The  summer  winds  through  the  green-wood  passed, 
And  the  .sweet  Brier  bowed  his  head ; 

A  garland  fair  at  her  feet  he  cast, 
And  in  gentle  tones  he  said, — 


228  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

"  Return  to  the  world,  dear  child,  return ; 

No  longer  receive,  but  give! 
From  a  humble  Brier  this  lesson  learn : 

Thou  hast  power  in  thyself  to  live. 


JUBILATE.  229 


JUBILATE. 

Sung-  at  the  celebration  of  the  20th  anniversary  of  Modern  Spirit 
ualism,  March  31,  1868. 

THE  world  hath  felt  a  quickening  breath 

From  Heaven's  eternal  shore, 
And  souls  triumphant  over  Death 

Return  to  earth  once  more. 
For  this  we  hold  our  jubilee, 

For  this  with  joy  we  sing  — 
"  O  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting?" 

Our  cypress  wreaths  are  laid  aside 

For  amaranthine  flowers, 
For  Death's  cold  wave  does  not  divide 

The  souls  we  love  from  ours. 
From  pain,  and  death,  and  sorrow  free, 

They  join  with  us  to  sing  — 
"O  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory? 

O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting?" 


230  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

Immortal  eyes  look  from  above 

Upon  our  joys  to-night, 
And  souls  immortal  in  their  love 

In  our  glad  songs  unite. 
Across  the  waveless  crystal  sea 

The  notes  triumphant  ring  — 
"  O  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting?" 

"Sweet  spirits,  welcome  yet  again!" 

With  loving  hearts  we  cry ; 
And,  "  Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men," 

The  angel  hosts  reply. 
From  doubt  and  fear,  through  truth  made 
free, 

With  faith  triumphant  sing  — 
"O  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory? 

O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting?" 


THE    DIVINE    IDEA.  231 


THE   DIVINE  IDEA. 

WHEN  the  morning  came  with  her  eyes  of  flame, 

And  looked  on  the  youthful  earth ; 
When  man,  at  the  call  of  the  Lord  of  All, 

Rose  up  in  his  glorious  birth ; 
When  the  stars  rang  out,  with  a  tuneful  shout 

To  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
And  the  world's  great  heart,  with  a  quickened  start, 

Beat  time  to  their  melody ;  — 

Ere  the  dawning  light  in  the  heavens  grew  bright, 

Ere  the  march  of  the  hours  began, 
God  planted  the  seed  of  a  mighty  need, 

In  the  innermost  soul  of  man. 
'Twas  the  yearning  wild  that  a  little  child 

For  the  fostering  parent  feels  — 
A  hoi/  thought  with  his  life  inwrought, 

Which  his  simplest  act  reveals. 

The  lion  proud,  like  a  servant,  bowed 

At  the  might  of  his  sovereign  will ; 
But  to  man  alone  was  the  sense  made  known 

Of  a  power  that  was  higher  still. 


232  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

Yet  vague  and  dim  was  that  thought  to  him; 

His  simple  and  child-like  mind 
Could  not  gaze  aright  on  that  matchless  light, 

So  boundless  and  unconfined. 

Gross  by  birth  from  his  mother  Earth, 

He  needed  some  outward  sign ; 
So  the  artisan  planned,  with  a  cunning  hand, 

A  form  of  the  Great  Divine. 
And  Baal,  and  Allah,  and  Juggernaut, 

And  Brahma,  and  Zeus,  and  Pan, 
Show   how    deeply   wrought    was    that    one    great 
thought, 

In  the  worshiping  soul  of  man. 

Then  his  Deity  came  in  the  morning's  flame, 

In  the  song  of  the  sun-lit  seas, 
In  the  stars  at  night,  in  the  noontide  light, 

In  the  woods  and  the  murmuring  breeze. 
To  the  Great  Divine  at  the  idol  shrine, 

By  each  and  by  every  name, 
Through  the  fiery  death  or  the  prayerful  breath, 

The  worship  was  still  the  same. 

Like  a  grain  in  the  sod  grew  the  thought  of  God, 

As  Nature's  slow  work  appears; 
From  the  zoophyte  small,  to  the  "  Lord  of  all," 

Through  cycles  and  sums  of  years. 


THE    DIVINE    IDEA.  233 

But  the  dark  grew  bright,  and  the  night  grew  light, 

When  the  era  of  Truth  began, 
And  the  soul  was  taught,  through  its  primal  thought, 

Of  the  life  of  God  in  man. 

Then  the  soul  arose  from  her  long  repose, 

At  the  Truth's  awakening  breath, 
And  fearlessly  trod  as  a  child  of  God, 

Triumphant  o'er  Time  and  Death. 
There  came  a  sound  from  the  wide  world  round, 

Like  the  surging  oi  the  sea, 
Majestic  and  deep  in  its  onward  sweep  — 

'Twns  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

Through  the  ages  dim  has  that  holy  hymn 

Come  down  to  our  listening  ears ; 
And  still  shall  it  float  with  a  sweeter  note 

Through  the  vista  of  coming  years. 
And    a    voice    makes    known    from    the    viewless 
throne, 

"As  it  hath  been,  shall  it  be  — 
On !  on  from  the  past !  still  on  to  the  last ! 

Like  a  river  that  seeks  the  sea." 

"Hour  by  hour,  like  an  opening  flower, 

Shall  truth  after  truth  expand; 
The  sun  may  grow  pale,  and  the  stars  may  fail, 

But  the  purpose  of  God  shall  stand. 


POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 


Dogmas  and  creeds  without  kindred  deeds, 

And  altar  and  fane,  shall  fall ; 
One  bond  of  love,  and  one  home  above, 

And  one  faith  shall  be  to  all." 


THE   PYRAMIDS.  235 


THE  PYRAMIDS. 

"  I  was  weary,  very  weary ;  but  when  I  leaned  againt  the  Pyramids, 
they  gave  me  strength."  —  KOSCIELSKJ. 

A  WANDERER  from  his  childhood's  home, 

An  exile  from  his  father-land, 
His  weary  feet  were  doomed  to  roam 

Far  o'er  the  desert's  scorching  sand. 
No  mother  o'er  his  pillow  smiled, 

No  sister's  hand  a  blessing  lent; 
His  only  couch  the  desert  wild, 

His  only  home  an  Arab  tent. 

Upon  the  classic  shores  of  Greece, 

And  by  the  imperial  towers  of  Rome, 
He  vainly  sought  to  find  that  peace 

Denied  him  in  his  childhood's  home. 
Beneath  Lake  Leman's  watery  bed, 

In  Chillon's  dungeon  damp  and  low, 
Communing  with  the  mighty  dead, 

His  spirit  felt  a  kindred  glow. 


236  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

He  drank  Circassia's  breath  of  bloom, 

He  climbed  the  Alps'  eternal  snows, 
He  plucked  the  leaves  by  Virgil's  tomb, 

And  stood  where  ancient  Jordan  flows. 
And  where  Napoleon's  falchion  gleamed 

Along  the  borders  of  the  Nile, 
The  pilgrim  exile  slept,  and  dreamed 

He  saw  his  own  loved  mother's  smile. 

With  weary  feet  he  came,  at  last, 

Where,  all  untouched  by  Time's  rude  hands, 
The  Pyramids  their  shadows  cast 

Upon  the  desert's  burning  sands. 
Still  in  their  works  of  greatness  dwelt 

The  spirits  of  these  mighty  men ; 
Before  their  majesty  he  knelt! 

He  rose  —  and  he  was  strong  again. 

O  thou!  whose  life  is  all  inwrought 

With  cheerful  faith  and  strength  sublime, 
Leave  thou  some  monumental  thought 

Upon  the  desert  waste  of  Time. 
Some  exile  from  his  native  heaven 

May  tread  the  path  which  thou  hast  trod, 
And  through  thy  works  may  strength  be  given 

To  lift  his  spirit  up  to  God. 


THE    IXNER   MYSTERY.  237 


THE  INNER  MYSTERY. 


The  following  inspirational  poem  was  delivered  at  a  festival  com 
memorative  of  the  twentieth  anniversary  of  the  advent  of  Modern 
Spiritualism,  held  in  Music  Hall,  Boston,  March  31,  1808. 

It  is  an  allegorical  description  of  the  progress  of  a  soul  from  the  Val 
ley  of  Superstition  and  Traditional  Theology  to  the  highest  mountain 
peaks  of  Natural  Philosophy  and  Spiritual  Revelation.  He  is  strength 
ened  and  encouraged  in  his  progress  by  the  voices  "  of  the  loved  ones 
gone  before."  At  length,  in  the  higher  regions  of  metaphysical  reason 
ing  and  abstract  philosophy,  he  encounters  the  demon  Doubt  —  a  rep 
resentative  of  popular  Theology  and  traditional  authority.  This  Doubt 
endeavors  to  make  him  distrust  reason,  and  render  a  blind  credence  to 
mere  authority.  In  the  struggle  with  the  demon  the  great  Truth 
flashes  with  a  realizing  sense  upon  the  soul,  that  by  its  inherent  nature 
it  is  older  than  all  forms  of  Truth,  and  one  with  God  himself.  In  the 
strength  of  this  conviction  he  conquers,  and  the  demon  is  slain. 

Thus  "  THE  INNEK  MYSTERY  "  is  revealed,  and  the  unfolding  of  the 
spiritual  perceptions  follows  as  a  legitimate  result. 

"  According  to  Fiehte,  there  is  a  Divine  Idea  pervading  the  visible 
universe;  which  visible  universe  is  indeed  but  its  symbol  and  sensible 
manifestation,  having  in  itself  no  meaning,  or  even  true  existence,  in 
dependent  of  it.  To  the  mass  of  men  this  Divine  Idea  lies  hidden;  yet 
to  discern  it,  to  seize  it,  and  live  wholly  in  it,  is  the  condition  of  all 
genuine  virtue,  knowledge,  freedom,  and  the  end,  therefore,  of  all 
spiritual  effort  in  every  age."  —  CAHLYLE. 


238  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

IN  the  valley,  where  the  darkness 

Dropped  its  poisonous  vapors  on  my  head, 
Where  the  night  winds  moaned  and  murmured, 
Like  the  voices  of  the  troubled  dead, 

Groping,  stumbling,  weary  and  alone, 
Did  I  make  the  earth  my  bed, 
And  my  pillow  was  a  stone. 

O,  that  slumber! 
It  was  long,  and  dark,  and  deep, 
Till  a  voice  cried,    "  Come  up  hither ! " 
And  I  started  from  my  sleep. 

"Whither?"  cried  I;  and  it  answered, 

"  Come  up  hither !   for  the   day  is  dawning ; 

Through  the  gates  of  amethyst  and  amber 
Shines  the  kindling  glory  of  the  morning." 

Gazing  upward, 
I  beheld  assurance  of  the  day ; 

Hopeful-hearted, 
O'er  the  mountain-path  I  took  my  way. 

'Mid  the  pine  trees 
Did  I  hear  life's  drowsy  pulses  start, 

Swinging,  singing, 
Making  sweet,  but  mournful  music, 

Thrilling,  filling, 
All  the  lonely  places  of  my  heart. 


THE    IXNER   MYSTERY.  239 

Then  the  embers  of  the  morning, 

Smouldering  on  night's  funeral  pyre, 
Kindling  into  sudden  brightness, 

Lit  the  mountain-peaks  with  fire; 
And  the  quickened  heart  of  Nature 

Answered  from  her  Memnon  lyre. 
Eager,  earnest,  still  ascending, 

Toward  the  glories  of  the  day, 
I  could  hear  that  voice  my  steps  attending, 
"With  the  matin-hymn  of  Nature  blending, 
Ever  crying,  "Come  up  hither!" 

And  I  followed  in  the  way. 

Bright  the  sky  glowed  with  celestial  splendor, 
Like  the  light  of  love  from  God's  own  eyes ; 
And  the  lofty  mountains  seemed  to  tender 
Back  their  crowns  of  glory  to  the  skies. 

Far  above  me, 

In  the  hights  so  terrible  and  grand, 
I  could  see  the  glaciers  gleaming 
In  the  hollow  of  the  mountain's  hand. 

Flashing,  dashing, 
From  the  steeps  the  foaming  cataract  poured, 

Over  pathways 
Which  the  mighty  avalanche  had  scored. 

Dim  and  ghostly 
Rose  the  silvery  clouds  of  wreathed  spray, 


240  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

RainboAV-mantled, 
Vanishing  in  upper  air  away. 

Elfin  shadows 
O'er  my  lonely  pathway  leaped  and  played, 

As  the  pine  trees 
Dreamily  their  murmuring  branches  swayed. 

All  the  air  seemed  filled  with  voices, 
Which  I  ne'er  had  thought  to  hear  again; 

And  I  fled,  to  leave  behind  me, 
Sounds  of  pleasure  close  allied  to  pain. 

Upward,  onward,  did  I  speed  my  way, 

Nearer  to  the  perfect  source  of  day. 
Awed  by  beauty  and  by  terror, 

Tearful,  prayerful,  did  I  sink, 
"Where  the  tender,  blue-eyed  gentian 

Bloomed  upon  the  glacier's  brink. 

r 

"  Save  me !  O  thou  loving  Lord ! "  I  cried, 
"From  the  unforeseen   intrusion 
Of  this  sad,  but  sweet  delusion, 
From  this  strange  and  cruel  semblance 
To  the  cherished  love  that  long  since  died. 

"Come  up  hither!" 
Cried  my  unknown  guide  who  went  before. 

"Come  up  hither!" 
And  I  followed  in  the  way  once  more, — 


THE    INNER   MYSTERY.  241 

Upward,  where  the  tempests  gathered, 
Where    the    lightnings    crouched    within    their 

lair, 

Where  the  mighty  God  of  thunder 
With  his  hammer  smote  the  shuddering  air, 

Where  the  tall  cliffs,  battle-splintered, 
Reared  their  lofty  summits,  bleak  and  bare; 
Higher  yet,  where  all  my  life-tide, 

With  the  breath  of  Heaven  grew  chill ; 
And  I  felt  my  pulses  quickened, 
With  a  strange,  electric  thrill. 

Not  one  blossom  brightened  in  my  pathway, 
Not  one  lichen  dared  that  wintry  breath; 
But  far  up  above,  and  all  around  me, 

Brooded  awful  silence,  as  of  death. 
And  I  walked  where  ragged  precipices, 
Overhanging  wild  and  dark  abysses, 
Frowned  upon  the  dizzy  depths  below; 
Where  the  yawning  chasms, 
Rent  by  earthquake  spasms, 
Strove  to  fill  their  hungry  throats  with  snow. 
Burdened  with  a  sense  of  solemn  grandeur, 
With  a  deeply  reverent  heart  I  trod 
'Mid  those  awful  and  majestic  altars 
Of  the  Unknown  God. 
16 


242  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

Musing  deeply, 
As  I  turned  an  angle  of  the  rocky  wall, 

Lo!  before  me 

Stood  a  figure,  ghostly,  gaunt,  and  tall; 
Like  the  famous,  fabled  image, 

Falling  from  Dardanian  skies, 
Wrapped  in  white,  marmorial  silence, 
Did  he  greet  my  wondering  eyes. 

Straight  upon  the  narrow  pathway, 
Fixed  as  fate,  he  seemed  to  stand, 

With  a  widely  yawning  chasm, 
And  a  wall  on  either  hand. 

"  Come  up  hither !  come  up  hither  I " 
Cried  the  voice  that  went  before ; 

And  my  spirit  leaped  impatient 
To  obey  the  call  once  more. 

"  Let  me  pass,  I  pray  thee," 
Said  I  in  a  calm  and  courteous  tone; 

But  he  only  gazed  upon  me, 
With  a  face  as  passionless  as  stone. 

"Prithee,  stand  aside!"  I  said  more 

"For  I  may  not  stay; 
I  must  reach  the  mountain-hights  aoove  me 

Ere  the  close  of  day." 


THE    INNER   MYSTERY.  243 

But  he  stirred  not,  spake  not,  breathed  not, 

Only  turned  his  stony  eyes 
Downward  —  to  the  yawning  chasm, 

Upward  —  to  the  distant  skies. 

"Wherefore,"  said  I, 
With  a  slowly  kindling  wrath, 
"Do  you  seek  to  stay  ray  progress, 

Do  you  stand  across  my  path? 
What  am  I  to  thee,  or  thou  to  me? 

Stand  aside,  or  prithee,  sirrah, 
Which  is  stronger  we  shall  shortly  see. 

Like  a  statue  did  he  stand  —  the  same. 

Then  my  smothered  wrath  waxed  hotter; 
"  Demon !  speak  thy  name  and  tell  thine  errand ! " 

Cried  I,  with  a  loudly  ringing  shout; 
And  his  cold  lips  parted,  as  he  answered, 
"I  am  DOUBT. 

"Go  no  farther, 
For  a  phantom  lures  thee  on  thy  way; 

Upward  striving 
Will  not  bring  thee  nearer  to  the  perfect  day. 

In  the  valley 
All  is  warmth,  and  rest,  and  kindly  cheer; 

Go  no  farther; 
It  is  lone  and  very  cold  up  here. 


244  POEMS    OF   PROGRESS. 

"  Trust  not  to  your  erring  Reason 
All  your  aspirations  to  control ; 

Man  grows  ripe  before  the  season 
When  he  heeds  the  promptings  of  the  soul. 

"  Come  up  hither !  come  up  hither," 
Cried  the  tuneful  voice  again ; 

"Doubt  should  never  counsel  duty, 
When  the  way  of  truth  is  plain. 

"  Stay ! "  replied  the  watchful  demon ; 

"Thou  shalt  lend  an  ear  to  Doubt, 
For,  by  Heaven!  thou  shalt  not  pass  me 

Until  thou  hast  heard  me  out. 
Thou  art  deeply  cursed  from  the  beginning, 
All  thy  nature  is  corrupt  with  sinning; 
God  refuses  thee  his  grace  to-day; 
Christ  alone  his  righteous  wrath  can  stay. 

All  thy  prayerful  aspiration 

But  retards  thy  soul's  salvation; 
All  the  efforts  of  thy  godless  will 
Make  thy  deep  damnation  deeper  still. 

O  thou  self-deluded  dreamer! 

O  thou  transcendental  schemer! 

Leave  thine  idle  speculations, 

Trances,  visions,  exaltations, 
And  thy  toilsome  upward  progress  stay. 


THE    INNER   MYSTERY.  245 

By  thy  fallen,  lost  condition, 
By  the  depths  of  thy  perdition, 

I  have  promised, 
Yea,  have  sworn,  to  turn  thee  from  this  way. 

"Come  up  hither!  come  up  hither!"    •    . 
Cried  the  voice  persuasive  from  above. 

Then  I  looked,  and  bending  o'er  me, 
I  beheld  my  long-lost  angel  love. 

"Back!"  I  shouted  to  the  demon. 
"  Never ! "  in  a  measured  tone  he  said, 

"  Till  the  final  resurrection, 
Till  the  earth  and  sea  give  up  their  dead." 

Then  I  smote  him  — 
Smote  him  in  the  forehead  and  the  eyes ; 

And  I  shouted, 
"  I  will  not  be  cozened  by  your  lies ! 

Go  to  cowards 

With  your  Hebrew  husks  and  pious  pelf, 
FOR  MY  SOUL  IS  OLDER  THAN  THE  TRUTH, 
ONE  WITH  GOD  HIMSELF." 

Then  my  blows  fell  fiercer,  harder,  hotter, 

Till  he  yielded 
Like  the  clay-formed  vessel  of  a  potter; 


246  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

And  I  crashed  into  his  brainless  skull, 
Smote  his  stony  eyes  out,  cold  and  dull ; 
Into  shards  amorphous  dashed  his  lips  profane, 
And,  as  brittle  as  a  bubble, 

Clove  his  shattered  trunk  in  twain. 
Then,  as  if  God's  mill-stones  surely 

Had  been  given  me  in  trust, 
On  the  rock  I  stood  securely, 

And  those  fragments  ground  to  dust. 

But,  O,  God !  what  wondrous  transformation 

Seized  me  in  its  mighty  grasp  of  power ! 
As  a  bud,  by  Nature's  potent  magic, 

Bursts  at  once  into  a  perfect  flower! 
Like  the  record  of  a  wise  historian, 

Lay  unsealed  the  wondrous  Book  of  Life ; 
Swelling  grandly,  like  a  chant  Gregorian, 

Perfect  unison  arose  from  strife; 
And  I  knew  then  that  this  grim,  defiant  elf, 
That  this  clay-born  image,  was  my  weaker  self; 
That  this  demon,  Doubt,  with  which   I   held   such 

strife, 

Was  the  sense's  logic  —  the  phenomena  of  life ; 
And  as  Perseus  slew  the  fabled  Gorgon, 
Must  this  mocking  fiend  be  met  and  slain, 
That  transfixed  in  cold  and  stony  silence 
Faith-  and  Hope  no  longer  might  remain. 


THE    INNER   MYSTERY.  247 

Only  when  the  conscious  soul  asserted 

What  the  flesh  and  sense  so  long  concealed, 
GOD  WITHIN  —  ONE  WITH  THE  WEAK  AND  HUMAN, 

Did  the  INNER  MYSTERY  stand  revealed. 
O,  what  glorious  consummation  to  my  strife ! 
Death  of  Death !  and  Life  unto  Eternal  Life ! 
All  around,  the  grand  and  awful  mountains 
Hushed  in  silent  reverence  seemed  to  stand, 

White  and  shining, 
Like  the  pearly  portals  of  the  better  land. 

Then  I  heard  the  angels  singing, 

Soft  and  clear  the  sweet  notes  ringing, 
Dropping  gently  like  a  golden  rain 

From  the  treasured  wealth  of  day; 
And  I  caught  these  words  of  blessing, 

Floating  down  the  heavenly  way:  — 

SONG  or  THE  ANGELS. 

"O,  what  is  the  life  of  the  soul, 
But  the  life  of  the  Infinite  Whole? 

For  God  and  his  creatures  are  One, 
As  the  tide  from  the  ocean  of  light, 
Which  sets  through  the  day  and  the  night, 

Is  the  same  in  the  star-beam  or  sun. 

"  He  hath  laid  out  the  sea  and  the  land ; 
He  hath  balanced  the  Heavens  in  his  hand; 


248  POEMS    OF   PEOGEESS. 

And  the  Earth,  in  that  order  sublime, 
How  greatly  and  grandly  she  rolls, 
And  casts  off  her  harvests  of  souls, 

In  the  boundless  fruition  of  Time ! 

"We  ask  not  his  face  to  behold; 
Of  his  glory  we  need  not  be  told ; 

For  the  Word  of  his  witness  is  near. 
His  Life  is  the  Infinite  Light, 
Which  quickens  our  blindness  to  sight; 
And  he  speaks  that  his  children  may  hear. 

"He  suffers  and  sins  with  them  all; 
He  stands,  or  he  falls  when  they  fall; 

For  he  is  both  substance  and  breath. 
Their  strength  from  his  greatness  they  draw; 
His  wisdom  and  will  are  their  law; 

And  he  is  their  Saviour  in  death. 

"  When  the  depths  of  all  hearts  are  unsealed 
Shall  the  word  of  his  truth  be  revealed, 

That  MAN  is  by  NATUEE  DIVINE; 
And  faith  in  God's  presence  within, 
Shall  strengthen  the  spirit  to  win 
A  peace  which  no  tongue  can  define." 


THE   INNER   MYSTERY.  249 

Then  the  music  floated  upward, 

Where  the  light  of  parting  day, 
With  its  gold  and  crimson  glory, 

On  the  mountain  summits  lay; 
And  it  left  me  longing,  praying, 
And  with  quickened  steps  essaying 

Swift  the  nearest  hights  to  gain, 
That  my  captivated  being 
Might  unto  a  clearer  seeing 

Of  those  fading  forms  attain. 
And  ere  long,  with  hands  uplifted, 

Kneeling  on  the  mountain  high, 
Out  into  the  listening  silence 

Did  I  send  my  pleading  cry:  — 
"  O  thou  beauteous  land  of  Beulah, 

Just  beyond  my  longing  sight! 
O  ye  bright  ones,  loved  and  lovely, 

Dwelling  in  celestial  light ! 
Leave,  O!  leave  me  not  behind  you 

With  the  darkness  and  the  night!" 
In  the  sunshine  and  the  shadow, 

Then  I  saw  an  open  door; 
And  a  voice  cried,  "Come  up  hither! 

Life  is  yours  forevermore." 
Gales  of  Araby  around  me 

Seemed  to  wave  their  fragrant  wings; 
Strains  of  music,  low  and  tender, 

Thrilled  along  celestial  strings. 


250  POEMS    OF    PROGRESS. 

Like  a  spotless  lily,  blending 

Matchless  bloom  and  breath  divine, 
*     Did  my  lost  one,  long  lamented, 

Lay  her  soft  white  hand  in  mine; 
And  uplifted, 
Strangely  gifted, 
With  a  power  unknown  before, 
Did  my  love  and  I  together 
Enter  at  the  open  door. 


Lo!  again  those  bright  immortals, 

As  their  fadeless  flowers  they  wreathe, 

Words  of  greeting  oft  repeating, 
Celebrate  this  festive  eve. 

Listen  to  their  tuneful  message 

For  the  hearts  that  joy  or  grieve: — 

SONG  or  THE  MINISTERING  SPIRITS. 

"  Truth's  -heralds  bright, 

With  feet  of  light, 
Upon  Life's  mountains  stand, 

Sent  to  proclaim, 

In  God's  high  name, 
Glad  tidings  to  the  land. 

With  smiles  of  love 

They  wait  above, 


THE    INNER    MYSTERY.  251 

And,  'Come  up  hither!'  cry. 

When  souls  shall  climb 

Life's  hights  sublime, 
Then  Death  itself  shall  die. 

"The  little  child, 

Whose  bright  eyes  smiled, 
Whom  angel-hands  upbore, 

The  good,  the  kind, 

The  pure  in  mind, 
Glide  through  Life's  open  door. 

With  voices  sweet, 

Their  lips  repeat 
The  chorus  of 'the  sky:  — 

'All  souls  shall  be 

From  doubt  made  free, 
And  Death  itself  shall  die.* 

"Joy  crowns  with  flowers 

Life's  summer-hours, 
When  storms  of  sorrow  cease ; 

And  wintry  snows, 

And  calm  repose, 
Bring  thoughts  of  holy  peace. 

Thus  pales  or  burns 

Life's  star  by  turns, 


252  POEMS    OF    PKOGKESS. 

As  swift  the  moments  fly; 
But  winter's  blight, 
And  sorrow's  night, 

And  Death  itself,  shall  die. 

"From  Death's  abyss 
To  nights  of  bliss 

Must  souls  immortal  strive; 
While  loss  and  gain, 
And  peace  and  pain, 

Shall  keep  their  faith  alive. 
But  higher  still, 
With  tireless  will, 

Their  course  shall  upward  lie, 
Till  palms  shall  wave 
Above  the  grave, 

And  Death  itself  shall  die." 


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